. 

REVELATION 


FRID   EWAR      -* 


WAY  OF  REVELATION 


WAY  OF  REVELATION 


A  NOVEL  OF  FIVE  YEARS 


BY  WILFRID   EWART 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK       ....      MCMXXII 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,   BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


The  characters  in  this  novel  are  fictitious 
and  have  no  connection  with  any  persons, 
living  or  deceased.  The  war  experiences 
aref  in  many  cases,  based  on  actuality  but 
are  not  to  be  attributed  to  any  particular 
unit  of  the  British  Army. 


PBIKTXD  IK  THB  UXITBD  BTATM  OF  A.HBB1CA 


CONTENTS 

PART  THE  FIRST:  ILLUSION 

PAGE 

I.  PAGEANT  OF  A  LONDON  NIGHT 9 

II.      HUMORESKE 22 

III.  AT  THE  RACES 37 

IV.  ALARMS  AND  EXCURSIONS 45 

V.    THE  HOUSE  OF  ARDEN 57 

VI.  INCIDENTS 66 

VII.  ADRIAN  AND  ROSEMARY 76 

VIII.  GINA  MARYON'S  BEDROOM 83 

IX.  A  SUMMER'S  DAY — AND  AFTER 95 

X.  THE  VOICE  OF  LONDON 102 

XL  A  TELEGRAM  AND  Two  LETTERS 107 

PART  THE  SECOND:  DISILLUSION 

I.  THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE 115 

II.  ADRIAN  AND  ERIC 134 

III.  FORTUNE'S  WHEEL 140 

IV.  THE  BAPTISM  OF  PAIN 146 

V.  A  DUEL  A  TROIS        .  156 

VI.    THE  TRIUMPH 170 

VII.    THE  DREAM 180 

VIII.    THE  AWAKENING 187 

IX.    LAST  DAY 194 

5 

538622 


6  CONTENTS 

PART  THE  THIRD:  TRAVAIL 

PAGE 

I.  WINTER  IN  NORTHERN  FRANCE 209 

II.  CHRISTMAS,  1915 220 

III.  ANTICIPATION 232 

IV.  NIGHTFALL 240 

V.    GOD-FORGOTTEN 248 

VI.  UNDERWORLD 259 

VII.  LOVE  AND  DEATH        . 273 

VIII.  THE  ROAD 288 

IX.  A  BATTLEFIELD 314 

PART  THE  FOURTH:  DAWN 

I.  ANOTHER  WINTER  PASSES 319 

II.  FAITH  AND  ERIC 334 

III.  THEIR  DREAM 340 

IV.  THEIR  AWAKENING 355 

V.  THEIR  MORROW 358 

VI.  INTIMATION 375 

VII.  TIME  AND  TIDE  ROLL  ON 378 

VIII.  ADRIAN  AND  FAITH 393 

IX.  A  VISION  OF  PARIS 408 

X.  RENCONTRE 422 

XL  THE  LAST  FIGHT 429 

PART  THE  FIFTH:  PEACE 

I.    CONVERGING  COURSES 447 

II.  REUNION 458 

III.  THE  GRAND  VICTORY  BALL 470 

IV.  THE  THREE  HILLS  489 


PART   THE    FIRST: 
ILLUSION 


Behold,  I  come  as  a  thief.  Blessed  is  he  that  watcheth, 
and  keepeth  his  garments,  lest  he  walk  naked,  and  they 
see  his  shame. 

And  he  gathered  them  together  into  a  place  called  in 
the  Hebrew  tongue  Armageddon. 

REVELATION  XVI,  15-16 


WAY  OF  REVELATION 

CHAPTER  I 
Pageant  of  a  London  Night 


A  MIDSUMMER  night  in  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and  fourteen 
lay  heavy  upon  London. 

The  West  End  of  the  city  offered  no  suggestion  of  rest.  Its 
streets  were  brilliant  with  electric  light,  a-whir  with  motor-cars 
and  taxicabs,  crowded  with  those  returning  homeward  from  the 
theatres,  or,  by  way  of  restaurants,  supper-clubs  and  ball-rooms, 
beginning  the  night  life  of  the  town.  The  roar  of  the  omnibuses 
and  of  the  lesser  motor  traffic  made  a  background  for  the  hurrying 
crowds,  for  the  cries  of  the  newspaper-sellers,  for  the  cab  whistles, 
the  insistent  hooters,  and  the  scarcely-heard  chimes  of  the  clocks. 
Nor  was  there  lacking  a  quieter,  kinder  note,  when  fitfully  from 
alley-ways  and  side-streets  came  faint  sounds  of  piano  and  violin 
where  street  musicians  played,  or  where  in  some  upstairs-room 
gay  people  danced.  Over  all  brooded  the  summer  night. 

Something  of  the  careless,  ephemeral  quality  of  mankind  seemed 
to  linger  here.  Those  who  passed,  chattering  and  laughing,  were 
possessed  by  the  moment,  none  knowing  whence  the  other  came 
or  whither  went.  All  were  alike,  in  that  all  were  actors  in  this 
drama  of  London:  in  that  it  was  possible  to  weave  around  their 
figures  pulsing,  grim,  and  romantic  fantasies  of  life. 

The  past  too  rose  up  from  among  these  crowds;  and  out  of 
a  dim  vista  of  bygone  days  appeared  the  countless  men  and  women 
who  had  trod  these  paving-stones,  these  streets.  The  tears  that 


io  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

had  wetted  them,  the  laughter  that  had  rung  back  from  them, 
seemed  at  moments  to  hover  still.  Time  had  wrought  changes, 
the  unknown  future  held  many  more;  but  no  change  had  ever 
altered  the  face  of  the  fluttering  crowd.  It  is  true  that  all  had 
passed  out  in  their  turn — with  their  generation:  the  newsboys, 
the  filles  de  joief  the  commonplace  ones,  the  strange-looking  men. 
Many  had  passed  out  before  their  turn:  nobody  knew;  nobody 
cared.  Individuality  does  not  count  here.  It  is  sufficient  that  the 
crowd  remains,  that  the  winged  archer  poised  above  his  fountains 
in  the  heart  of  Piccadilly  Circus  remarks  no  pause  in  the  ebb  and 
flow,  no  dimming  of  his  brilliant  halo,  no  foreboding  of  an  im- 
pending judgment  upon  humanity, 

Two  young  men  attired  for  the  evening  were  strolling  from  the 
direction  of  the  Empire  Music  Hall  towards  Piccadilly.  They 
were  due  to  meet  a  party  of  friends  at  a  ball  at  11.15  precisely; 
and  were  late.  Not  that  it  mattered  to  be  late  for  a  ball;  the 
friends  would  probably  be  late,  too.  It  was  altogether  fashionable 
to  be  late;  it  was  fatal  to  be  punctual. 

At  the  portals  of  the  great  Hotel  Astoria,  in  the  heart  of  Picca- 
dilly, a  long  line  of  motor-cars  disclosed  successive  pairs  of  lamps 
stretching  down  that  thoroughfare  towards  Hyde  Park  Corner. 
Each,  as  it  drove  up,  discharged  its  four,  five,  or  six  occupants,  and, 
amid  the  exhortations  of  enormous  uniformed  porters  and  police- 
men, passed  on.  The  two  young  men  pushed  through  a  circular 
moving  doorway  into  a  brilliantly  lighted  foyer,  mirrored  almost 
the  whole  way  round  and  leading  to  a  large,  less  brilliantly  lighted 
winter-garden  or  palm  court,  beyond  which  steps  led  up  to  a 
kind  of  dais  whereon  tables  and  chairs  were  set.  This  outer  hall 
was  crowded  with  people — gentlemen  taking  off  their  hats  and 
coats,  ladies  in  opera  cloaks  and  gowns  of  shimmering  material. 
All  the  while  the  doors  kept  revolving  as  fresh  parties  arrived. 
The  two  friends  having  handed  their  hats  and  sticks  over  a  counter 
to  a  rather  ostentatiously  grand  lacquey — with  whom  they  seemed 
to  cultivate  something  more  than  a  hat-and-stick  acquaintance — 
proceeded  to  draw  on  normally  difficult  white  gloves. 


PAGEANT  OF  A  LONDON  NIGHT  n 

Let  us  look  at  them.  Both  are  about  the  same  age,  twenty- 
one,  both  belong  to  a  class  obviously — even  to  a  type.  That  is  to 
say,  you  would  not  single  them  out  as  individuals  in  a  crowd 
but  would  recognise  that  they  belonged  to  one  category  in  the 
crowd.  The  taller  of  the  two  stands  rather  below  six  feet  in 
height,  is  narrowly  but  proportionately  built,  and  wears  his  dress- 
suit  with  an  air  of  custom.  At  a  first  glance  his  face,  a  clear-cut 
oval,  appears  to  signify  no  more  than  a  conventional  amiability, 
His  features  are  regular  and  his  complexion  that  almost  swarthy 
brown  which  so  frequently  accompanies  English  youth.  The  hair 
is  a  dark  chestnut,  the  eyes  brown;  and  it  is  these  eyes,  liquid 
and  large,  rather  than  a  suggestion  of  weakness  about  the  clean- 
shaven mouth,  which  imply  to  the  whole  face  an  expressiveness, 
a  capacity  for  experience  above  the  ordinary.  An  Irish  strain 
might  have  been  predicted — and  it  was  so.  Such  is  Adrian  Charles 
Knoyle. 

Of  his  companion,  Eric  Quentin  Sinclair,  it  may  simply  be  re- 
marked that  he  is  a  good  deal  the  shorter  of  the  two,  slightly,  even 
delicately  made,  with  blue  eyes,  a  pink-and-white  complexion,  and 
the 'faintest  hint  of  the  fairest  moustache.  A  more  conventional 
sort  altogether,  in  whom  neatness  may  be  said  to  amount  to  fastidi- 
ousness and  fastidiousness  to  the  verge  of  effeminacy,  the  effect 
being  pleasing  if  somewhat  commonplace. 

And  to  what  category,  to  what  order  of  beings  do  these  young 
gentlemen  belong?  They  may  be  described  as  "London  young 
men";  by  which  description  is  meant  those  mortals,  favoured  or 
otherwise,  who  after  a  laudably  undistinguished  career  at  a  suffi- 
ciently expensive  private  school,  at  a  sufficiently  expensive  public 
school,  and  afterwards  at  some  pension  abroad,  or  at  a  University, 
have  at  length  launched  themselves  upon  the  "gay  world."  Adrian 
Knoyle  is  the  only  son  of  a  reputedly  impecunious  baronet,  a  retired 
Army  gentleman,  possessed  of  a  "town  house"  and  an  estate  in 
the  West  of  England  which  is  "always  let" ;  his  mother  was  a  Culli- 
nan  of  County  Down.  Eric  Sinclair,  too,  has  a  mother — vaguely 
— his  male  parent  having  joined  the  majority;  however,  there's 
money  here,  and  the  young  fellow  is  next  heir  but  one  to  a  barony. 


12  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

With  regard  to  the  future,  neither  has  the  remotest  idea  what  he 
means  to  do  in  life.  Knoyle  lives  at  home  —  which  is  at  least 
economical  —  and  draws  a  modest  allowance  from  a  prudent  father. 
Sinclair  has  rooms  adjacent  to  St.  James1  Street  and  frequents  front 
rows,  first  nights,  and  stage  doors.  Both  euphemistically  are  "look- 
ing round.'* 

One  of  them  at  any  rate  knew  —  whenever  he  reflected  on  the 
matter  at  all  —  that  this  state  of  affairs  could  not  last  indefinitely, 
but  that  at  the  end  of  this  exciting  summer  he  would  have  to  "do 
something."  "Sufficient  unto  the  day,"  he  would  quote  upon  these 
occasions,  "is  the  evil  thereof.  If  worst  comes  to  worst  one 
must  marry." 

So  the  couple  had  settled  themselves  comfortably  to  "having  a 
good  time"  —  which  for  young  male  persons  of  presentable  ante- 
cedents, manners  and  appearance,  was  not  difficult  in  those  days. 


The  party  of  friends  at  length  arrived.  It  consisted  of  Mrs. 
Rivington  (of  Rivington)  and  an  elderly  gentleman  —  not  Mr. 
Rivington  who  had  long  since  retired  to  a  quieter  world  —  but  a 
certain  suave  Mr.  Heathcote;  of  three  young  women;  and  of  what 
is  commonly  known  as  a  "tame"  young  man. 

Mrs.  Rivington  was  immense,  short  and  florid  —  "stout;"  she 
was  exceptionally  ugly,  very  rich,  and  full  of  good  nature.  She 
was,  indeed,  one  of  those  beings  perennially  useful,  who  are  ac- 
cepted by  the  world  as  a  fully-established  fact  which  there  is  no 
desire  to  deny  or  to  decry,  but  of  which,  on  the  contrary,  everyone 
is  anxious  to  take  the  utmost  possible  advantage  —  she  was  an  "act 
of  God,"  somebody  had  said.  Of  two  of  the  young  women,  Eric 
Sinclair's  opinion  may  be  quoted,  for,  having  surveyed  the  party, 
he  turned  to  his  friend,  saying  in  a  tragic  aside:  "Oh!  my  Gawd, 
not  both  the  Miss  Kenelms!"  Knoyle  laughed.  The  ladies  named 
were  two  nieces  of  Mrs.  Rivington,  penniless  and  motherless,  whom 
she  kindly  had  taken  under  her  wing,  ostensibly  as  a  measure  of 
charity,  but  really  on  account  of  her  own  entertainment.  For  she 


PAGEANT  OF  A  LONDON  NIGHT  13 

was  a  lady  who  though  often  bemoaning  her  sleepless  lot,  loved 
society.  The  Misses  Kenelm  were  indeed  plain,  solid,  stolid  and 
execrably  though  most  expensively  dressed.  Like  Mrs.  Rivington 
herself  they  wore  quantities  of  ornaments.  The  third  damsel  of 
the  party  formed  a  contrast  to  the  rest,  and  winked  at  Knoyle 
immediately  upon  arrival.  She  was  tall  and  slim,  with  golden 
hair  of  a  remarkably  luminous  quality,  held  back  by  a  narrow 
royal  blue  ribbon.  Her  gown  was  of  white  and  silver  satin.  She 
wore  a  string  of  pearls.  Her  features  gave  promise  of  a  rare, 
an  even  seigneurial  beauty  when  character  should  ripen  in  the 
childish  face  and  maturity  assert  itself  in  the  slender  limbs.  There 
was,  at  present,  piquancy  rather  than  a  classic  contour,  young 
vitality  rather  than  defined  expression — or  was  it  that  expression 
chased  itself?  Her  complexion  was  of  a  delicate  carmine  tint, 
the  eyes  changeable,  of  no  certain  colour — wilful  as  a  kitten's. 

Having  discarded  their  cloaks,  the  four  ladies  reappeared  by  way 
of  one  of  the  numerous  mirrored  doors,  and  the  whole  party  pro- 
ceeded to  descend  a  red-carpeted  winding  staircase  that  promised 
to  lead  nowhere  in  particular.  At  the  first  turn,  however,  strains 
of  ragtime  music  greeted  their  ears ;  and  at  the  foot  they  perceived 
the  giver  of  the  entertainment  attended  by  an  obvious  daughter 
and  conversing  very  ably  with  a  large  number  of  people  at  the 
same  time,  while  shaking  hands  with  a  number  of  others  whose 
names  were  being  successively  announced.  At  this  stage,  as  though 
by  a  common  impulse,  Mrs.  Rivington  might  have  been  observed 
to  adjust  her  manner,  two  of  the  three  young  ladies  to  stiffen 
slightly  as  between  self-consciousness  and  anticipation,  and  each 
of  the  three  young  men  to  put  both  hands  to  his  white  tie,  his 
features  taking  on  a  bland  if  somewhat  strained  expression.  They 
then  went  forward,  the  names  being  bawled  out  in  turn  by  a 
patronising  varlet  in  silk  stockings,  white  breeches,  blue  dress-coat 
and  powdered  head. 

"Mrs.  Rivington  (of  Rivington)." 

"How  d'you  do!  So  glad  you've  been  able  to  come  and  have 
brought  your  nieces." 

"Yes,  here  we  all  are — just  come  on  from  the  play." 


14  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

The  ballgiver  is  a  mass  of  smiles  and  gushes  j  the  daughter  well- 
meaning  but  horribly  shy,  inadequate  quite  to  the  splendour  of 
the  scene  and  her  own  magnificence. 

"Miss  Kenelm." 

"Howd'youdo?" 

"Miss  Lettice  Kenelm." 

"How  d'youdo?" 

"Lady  Rosemary  Meynell." 

"Howd'youdo?" 

"Mr.  Eric  Sinclair." 

"Mr.  Adrian  Knoyle." 

"Mr.  Pemberton." 

All  pass,  as  it  were,  the  jumping-off  place,  Adrian  Knoyle 
remembering  with  curiosity,  but  without  alarm,  that  he  has  no 
idea  of  his  entertainer's  name  or  of  her  daughter's.  From  his 
friend  he  learns  that  that  most  ambitious  and  most  efficient-looking 
lady  (with  the  most  reluctant  and  most  inadequate-looking 
daughter)  is  the  whilom  wife  of  a  somewhat  mysterious  South 
American — but  all  South  Americans  are  mysterious! — of  whom 
she  rid  herself  at  the  expense  of  a  small  though  rather  painful 
paragraph  in  the  newspapers;  that  she  has  a  large  (and  vulgar) 
mansion  in  Grosvenor  Square,  and  that  a  few  evening  entertain- 
ments, at  the  cost  of  a  thousand  pounds  or  so  a  time,  are  as  a  dip 
in  the  ocean  so  she  can  marry  the  newly-hatched  daughter  to  the 
(preferably  eldest)  son  of  a  peer. 

"How  are  the  mighty  fallen!"  murmurs  Mr.  Sinclair,  looking 
round  as  they  all  pass  on  into  a  throng  of  people.  "And  why  are 
the  rich  always  so  damned  uninteresting!" 


§3 

Both  young  men — as  was  to  be  expected  of  their  age  and  kind — 
had  a  favourable  opinion  of  themselves  which  did  not,  however, 
necessarily  appear  except  in  uncongenial  society,  when  they  were 
apt  to  lose  patience  and  even  indulge  their  sense  of  humour.  Knoyle 


PAGEANT  OF  A  LONDON  NIGHT  15 

may  have  been  spoilt,  he  was  indubitably  vain,  but  he  never  had 
lacked  a  certain  critical  intelligence.  And  he  was  rather  too  em- 
phatically aware  of  that. 

Both  held  a  very  definite  set  of  ideas  about  things  and  people — 
standards  which  they  applied  with  all  the  rigour  and  self-confidence 
of  their  twenty-one  years.  These  ideas  were  the  innate  or  imbued 
traditions  of  the  Victorian  hierarchy,  of  an  English  public  school, 
and  of  a  small  world  which  they  imagined  to  be  a  big  one.  To 
the  onlooker  such  standards  might  appear  ridiculous;  they  did  not 
to  those  who  were  steeped  in  them.  Narrow,  arbitrary,  and  on 
the  whole  meaningless,  they  nevertheless  represented  the  full  force 
of  the  class  tradition  in  England.  The  Ten  Commandments  had 
long  since  given  place  to  a  more  rigorous  code.  "Thou  shalt  not 
say  this."  "Thou  shalt  not  say  that."  "Such-and-such  a  word 
shall  be  pronounced  in  such-and-such  a  way  and  none  other"  or — 
excommunication.  To  steal  is  bad  and  so  is  to  dishonour  one's 
father  and  mother,  but  to  abbreviate  one's  bicycle,  one's  photo- 
graphs, or  one's  telephone  means  a  black  mark  at  the  Day  of 
Judgment — or  worse.  Sir  Charles  Knoyle  preached  minor  vul- 
garity as  original  sin;  Lady  Knoyle  hardly  got  a  look-in  with  the 
tenets  of  her  Christianity. 

So  it  was  that  Adrian  Knoyle  had  grown  up.  Those  were  the 
standards — those  and  certain  sartorial  distinctions,  certain  facts 
about  tie-pins,  hats,  and  the  stuff  a  man's  clothes  were  made  of, 
certain  excommunications  of  fish-knives,  cake-stands,  and  other  as- 
pects of  gentility — by  which  he  was  brought  up  to  value,  to  dis- 
criminate between  his  fellow-creatures. 

And  with  such  ideas  at  the  back  of  their  minds,  the  two  young 
fellows  went  forward,  gibing  together,  in  train  of  the  four  ladies. 
It  seemed  almost  certain  that  the  hospitable  woman  with  whom 
they  had  just  shaken  hands  said  the  "wrong"  things;  she  was  so 
obviously  "not  quite"  or  even  "very  nearly."  Somebody  else — 
Mrs.  Rivington,  for  one — had  kindly  asked  all  the  people  to  her 
dance.  Mr.  Pemberton  followed  slightly  in  rear.  "Uncouth" 
was  the  mental  note  the  two  friends  made  of  him.  He  had  untidy 
hair  and  a  "good  plain"  face — a  quiet,  amiable  creature  who  looked 


i6  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

rather  out  of  place  In  a  ball-room.  And  he  wore  black-striped 
kid  gloves.  That  was  enough  to  finish  Pemberton. 

They  now  passed  through  a  kind  of  lobby  which  opened  upon 
the  ball-room.  The  lobby  was  full  of  grand-looking  people  who 
sat  about  in  couples  on  brocade  chairs  and  sofas,  by  their  united 
chatter  making  a  continuous  murmuring  as  of  starlings.  A  dance 
was  just  over  and  a  crowd  of  gay  folk  came  swarming  out  of 
the  ball-room.  Gowns,  jewels,  colours,  white  arms  and  necks! 
The  whole  effect  was  undoubtedly  attractive — the  blue  carpet  of 
the  salon,  the  pale  blue  chairs  and  French  tables,  the  great  round 
white  ball-room  supported  by  pillars  and  panelled  with  mirrors, 
garlanded  with  festoons  of  flowers,  the  facets  of  electric  light  gleam- 
ing here  from  huge  crystal  chandeliers,  there  from  clusters  cun- 
ningly concealed  in  cornices,  and  at  the  far  end  a  wide  flower- 
banked  dais  upon  which  was  grouped  the  Blue  Hungarian  band. 

After  chairs  had  been  found  for  the  four  ladies,  and  each  of 
the  younger  ones  had  been  invited  to  dance,  the  three  gentlemen 
were  left  standing  surveying  the  scene.  They  quickly  espied  ac- 
quaintances. 

"Well,  Adrian,  how  are  you  to-night?" 

"Oh!   Going  strong.    Shall  we  have  a  dance?" 

"The  next?" 

"No,  I'm  dancing  it  and  the  two  after.  What  about  missing 
three?" 

"Wretch!  But  anything  to  keep  the  boy  amused.  All  right — 
three  from  now." 

That  sort  of  thing  went  on  in  all  directions.  Knoyle  with 
undeniable  cynicism  felt  that  he  must  do  his  duty  by  the  Misses 
Kenelm  and  had  better  get  it  over  quickly.  Then  he  would  dance 
with  Rosemary  Meynell,  for  whose  sake  alone — the  fact  must  be 
recognised — he  had  come.  She  was  young — only  just  "out"  indeed 
— but  she  had  scored  a  palpable  hit  in  the  best  market;  and  she 
possessed  a  combination  of  qualities  deeply  attractive  to  Adrian. 
Her  father,  an  Earl  of  Cranford,  had  not  "appeared"  for  many 
years — there  was  a  "queer"  streak  in  the  family — and  since  his 
retirement  (nobody  quite  knew  whither),  her  mother,  an  admired 


PAGEANT  OF  A  LONDON  NIGHT  17 

and  intelligent  woman,  had  managed  the  Yorkshire  estates  almost 
single-handed  and  with  uncommon  skill. 

To  the  best  of  his  ability  and  amiability,  Adrian  Knoyle  polished 
off  the  Misses  Kenelm  in  turn.  All  three  comported  themselves 
strictly  according  to  the  rules,  A  repeating  to  C  the  same  profound 
amenities  as  he  or  she  had  already  perpetrated  to  B,  B  and  C 
replying  in  a  corresponding  strain. 

Knoyle:  "My  goodness,  it's  hot  to-night,  isn't  it?  There's 
going  to  be  an  awful  squash,  too." 

Miss  Kenelm  (or  Miss  Lettice  Kenelm)  :  "Yes,  it's  frightfully 
hot,  isn't  it?  And  there's  going  to  be  lots  more  people.  Whose 
band  is  it?" 

Well,  the  thing  was  obvious!  From  their  chairs  within  the 
lobby,  both  could  perceive  the  one  and  only  Hirsch  with  his  pale 
conceited  face,  his  mincing  mannerisms  and  vapid  sensual  mouth, 
conducting  the  orchestra — he  who  had  been  made  such  a  fuss  of 
that,  it  was  commonly  reported,  he'd  once  asked  a  duchess  for  a 
dance!  But  it  was  something  to  say.  Ten  minutes'  conversation 
are  allotted  on  these  occasions. 

Miss  Kenelm  (or  Miss  Lettice  Kenelm) :  "I  always  like  this 
place  to  dance  at.  The  roof  garden's  lovely." 

Knoyle:  "Yes,  it's  cool  out  there.  And  one  gets  such  a  nice 
breeze." 

Miss  Kenelm  (or  Miss  Lettice  Kenelm) :  "The  pillars  are 
rather  in  the  way  though  when  you're  dancing." 

"Rot!"  shrieked  Adrian  inwardly.  "Confound  it!  Can't  she 
or  won't  she  say  anything  sensible?" 

And  Miss  Kenelm  (whichever  it  happened  to  be)  was  com- 
muning with  herself:  "How  am  I  to  amuse  gentlemen?  He  seems 
a  nice  young  man.  I'd  better  agree  with  everything  he  says. 
There's  nobody  else  here  who  is  likely  to  ask  me  for  a  dance. 
I  shall  have  to  sit  out  the  whole  evening." 

That  was  the  trouble — she  always  agreed ;  whether  it  was  dances, 
whether  it  was  races,  whether  it  was  people's  clothes  or  their  faces 
—she  echoed,  she  agreed. 

An  old-fashioned  valse  had  been  succeeded  by  a  maxixe,  the 


i8  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

eccentric  gyrations  of  which  caused  some  food  for  comment,  as 
did  the  varying  expressions  of  self-consciousness  of  the  new  arrivals. 
The  crowd  swept  round  and  around — some  in  a  frenzy  of  enjoy- 
ment, leaping,  darting  forward  or  backward,  doing  the  oddest 
things,  others  ambling  through  the  various  movements  as  though 
performing  one  of  life's  more  solemn  duties.  Along  the  sides  of 
the  ball-room  on  golden  chairs  and  brocaded  settees,  were  es- 
tablished, like  faded  goddesses,  the  mammas,  aunts,  and  grand- 
mothers, together  with  a  sprinkling  of  elderly  male  persons,  the 
majority  of  whom,  to  judge  by  their  appearance,  were  retired 
colonels,  or  country  gentlemen  bi-annually  galvanised  into  life. 

Near  the  doorway,  standing  in  one  large  group,  was  a  bevy 
of  fairs — a  dozen  or  twenty  perhaps — who  had  so  far  failed  to 
find  partners  for  the  dance  or  for  any  dance.  Not  far  off  some 
young  gallants,  too  blase  or  too  lazy  to  take  part,  lounged  against 
pillars,  chatting  and  laughing.  Eric  Sinclair  was  to  be  seen  talking 
to  a  thin,  dark,  good-looking  man — a  soldier  obviously.  Adrian 
Knoyle  had  engaged  young  Mr.  Pemberton  in  conversation,  who 
smiled  continually,  but  whose  shyness  only  permitted  him  to  an- 
nounce that  he  didn't  often  come  to  dances.  He  was  studying 
for  the  Bar  and  liked  to  go  to  bed  early.  The  chief  fear  in  the 
minds  of  most  of  the  gilded  youths  was  that  one  of  the  unpartnered 
should  be  introduced  to  them;  they  simply  dreaded  being  "landed 
with  a  stumer."  The  thing  of  course  was  not  "done,"  and  yet 
well-meaning  people — people's  relations,  and  other  people's  rela- 
tions— persistently  did  it. 

They  were  a  study  in  themselves,  these  debonair  fellows — chaffing, 
joking,  merry.  They  were  full  of  jokes  of  a  daring  nature  apper- 
taining to  mutual  friends  or  enemies,  or  extracted  from  the  sayings 
of  comedians  or  from  the  sporting  papers.  They  had  their  own 
code  of  ethics,  their  own  particular  code  of  ideas — for  them  life 
portended  a  huge  pretence.  Those  who  felt  the  keenest  emotions 
or  the  keenest  curiosities,  religiously  overlaid  the  fact  with  a  coverlet 
of  half-ingenuous,  half-cynical  wit.  For  such,  existence  contained 
two  main  interests — feminine  and  sporting.  And  their  business 
in  the  world  ?  Had  they  any  ?  They  were  subalterns  in  regiments, 


PAGEANT  OF  A  LONDON  NIGHT  19 

they  were  in  the  Foreign  Office,  about  to  enter  the  Diplomatic 
Service,  or  commercially  engaged,  or  like  Knoyle  and  Sinclair  just 
"looking  round."  Nor  could  there  be  denied  to  them  a  certain 
flair j  even  though  the  curious  might  be  disappointed  by  their  cut-to- 
pattern  notions  bred  of  a  common  upbringing,  and  future,  and 
by  their  unvarying  similarity  in  outlook  and  appearance  born  of 
your  Englishman's  terror  of  differing  from  his  neighbour. 

Their  foibles  were  amazing,  but  by  creating  fashion  they  ap- 
peared illogically  correct.  .  .  . 

A  young  man  had  turned  up  one  night  in  a  delicately  tinted 
evening  waistcoat.  The  offence  was  heinous  and  talked  about 
for  weeks  as  if  the  unfortunate  youth  had  committed  a  public 
act  of  impropriety.  People's  moral  sense  was  indescribably  shocked. 
A  young  officer  was  seen  somewhere  in  a  short  evening  coat  and 
white  waistcoat.  Next  morning  he  appeared  before  his  Adjutant 
and  received  condign  punishment,  everybody  joining  in  pointing 
out  the  enormity  of  the  crime — which  was,  however,  mercifully 
ascribed  to  the  extremest  youth.  If  the  same  young  gentleman 
had  met  his  Colonel  while  spending  the  week-end  companionably 
at  Brighton  the  affair  would  have  been  chuckled  over  for  days — 
his  enterprise  universally  applauded. 

One  night  a  provincial  lady  with  more  ambition  than  knowledge 
of  the  world  she  aspired  to  enter,  gave  an  extremely  expensive 
party  and  invited  a  large  number  of  people  (very  few  of  whom 
she  knew  by  sight).  Thoughtfully  but  still  provincially  she  in- 
troduced programmes  for  the  convenience  of  the  guests.  What  is 
more,  they  were  convenient.  However,  the  thing  was  a  perfect 
scandal  and  the  ball  a  failure  from  start  to  finish.  Everybody 
said  "Programmes !  How  perfectly  awful !  Who  are  these  people? 
Did  you  ever  see  such  a  show  ?  Let's  flee !" 

And  they  did. 

§  4 

The  young  ladies  who  stood  together  in  a  group  near  the  door- 
way were  the  very  antithesis  of  light-heartedness.  Most  of  them 


20  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

were  plain,  some  proud,  some  frankly  depressed.  On  this  face, 
thoughtful,  full  of  character  but  not  of  beauty,  was  written  the 
look  of  one  who  says  to  herself  "Oh!  to  be  out  of  this — to  fall 
through  the  floor — to  hide  in  an  empty  room — to  be  in  the  dark — 
to  escape  somehow  from  the  noise,  the  people,  and  this  pitiless 
isolation.  I've  only  danced  once  the  whole  evening.  And  there's 
Angela  and  Phyllis,  and  Betty — they've  never  missed  a  dance. 
Everybody's  looking  at  me  too."  A  beaming  damsel — probably 
her  particular  friend — passing  hand-in-hand  with  a  partner  as  they 
step  out  of  the  dance,  remarks  brightly,  "Well,  Edith,  how  are 
you  enjoying  yourself?  Isn't  it  fun?  Why  aren't  you  dancing, 
my  dear?"  Now  and  again  a  good-natured  female  brings  up  to 
her  one  of  the  gilded  youths,  who  eyes  the  young  creature  rather 
as  an  expert  eyes  a  heifer  in  the  cattle  market.  "He  didn't  even 
ask  me  for  a  dance !  What's  the  matter  with  me  ?  What's  wrong  ? 
My  clothes?  .  .  .  No.  Young  men  don't  like  me." 

At  this  moment  a  gallant,  who  has  lately  been  introduced  to 
her,  slowly  and  deliberately  walks  along  the  row  of  "wallflowers" 
obviously  thinking  to  himself:  "Is  there  anything  here  one  could 
possibly  dance  with?  There's  that  little  Winsom  girl,  but  she's 
hopeless.  Oh !  my  Lor',  what  a  collection !" 

Meanwhile  little  Miss  Winsom  is  feverishly  trying  to  conceal 
her  agitation,  thus  communing  within  herself:  "Will  he  see  me, 
will  he — will  he — ask  me?  I  mustn't  catch  his  eye,  I  mustn't 
look  his  way.  He  sees  me — this  is  too  awful!"  Nevertheless, 
hope  rises  for  a  moment  to  be  succeeded  by  a  sort  of  quivering 
despair.  "He's  passed  on!  Another  dance  to  stand  through.  I 
feel  famished  and  almost  faint.  I'd  give  worlds  for  some  supper. 
But  who's  going  to  take  me  in  except  mother,  and  that  would 
be  too  degrading.  Oh !  We  must  get  away  soon ;  but  Marjorie's 
enjoying  herself,  and  of  course  she'll  want  to  stay  till  any  hour.  I 
shall  absolutely  break  down  in  a  minute,  and  if  anybody  asks  me 
to  dance  I  shall  look  as  if  I'm  going  to  cry.  How  proud  and 
beastly  they  all  are!  Oh!  for  my  little  bed  at  home  and  never 
to  come  near  this  awful,  noisy,  sordid  world  again." 

A  voice  whispers,  "As  if  it  mattered.  .  .  ."    But  it  does  matter! 


PAGEANT  OF  A  LONDON  NIGHT  21 

Rosemary  Meynell,  on  the  other  hand,  is  having  her  usual 
success.  Three  or  four  admirers  are  asking  for  dances  at  the 
same  moment,  and  she  may  be  heard  saying,  four,  five,  or  even 
six  from  now.  Only  the  "particular  friends"  are  so  favoured, 
and  these  may  be  numbered  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  Knoyle 
secures  his  second  dance  with  the  promise  of  another  and  longer 
one  later  on.  Rosemary  dances  well;  she  does  most  things  well. 
Adrian  has  great  fun  for  a  quarter-of-an-hour,  and  begins  to  think 
he  is  falling  in  love.  They  have  plenty  of  things  in  common,  these 
two;  they  criticise  their  acquiantance  from  the  same  standpoint — 
than  which  there  is  no  readier  bond  of  human  sympathy — and 
generally  make  each  other  happy.  With  a  sense  of  keen  anticipation 
they  agree  to  meet  again  later  in  the  night. 

Knoyle  makes  up  his  mind  that  there  is  nobody  else  worth 
dancing  with,  and  decides  to  go  on  for  an  hour  or  two  to  the 
Doncasters' — if  that's  boring,  somewhere  else.  For  the  fellow 
has  no  fewer  than  five  invitations,  generally  in  the  shape  of  large, 
oblong  printed  cards,  for  the  evening.  Blithely  accepting  all,  he 
intends  to  partake  of  those  which  are  likely  to  amuse  him  only. 

"Come  along,  Eric!"  he  calls  to  his  friend  whom  he  finds  at 
the  buffet;  "let's  sample  Doncaster  House." 


CHAPTER  II 
Humoreske 

§  i 

HAVING  reinforced  their  spirits  with  champagne,  Adrian  Knoyle 
and  Eric  Sinclair  called  for  a  taxicab  and  were  whirled  to  Bryan- 
ston  Square,  which  they  found  lively  with  lighted  vehicles,  and 
with  the  brilliant  windows  of  the  noble  House  of  Doncaster  thrown 
open  to  the  night. 

Couples  in  evening  dress,  betraying  a  faint  glimmer  of  jewels 
in  the  lamplight,  promenaded  the  pavement,  seeking  any  cool  breeze 
that  might  be  abroad;  there  were  people,  too,  on  the  awninged 
balcony,  while  through  the  windows  came  the  fitful  cadences  of  a 
valse,  which  floated  out  on  the  heavy  air  and  lost  themselves  in 
the  night  murmur  of  London. 

"What  is  that  thing?"  asked  Adrian  of  his  friend  as  he  paid 
off  the  cabman. 

"Never  heard  it  before." 

The  two  young  men  dashed  into  the  somewhat  bleak  hall,  where 
several  couples  were  sitting  out  like  stray  worshippers  in  a  temple, 
and  sought  Lady  Doncaster — a  shrivelled-up  little  old  woman  who 
shot  out  a  claw  at  you,  and  snatched  it  back  as  though  afraid  you 
might  want  to  keep  it  for  good.  Altogether  the  atmosphere,  even 
on  so  hot  a  night,  was  chilly.  What  Eric  Sinclair  called  the 
"cold  shade  of  aristocracy"  pervaded  the  stately  mansion,  which 
could  so  easily  have  accommodated  twice  the  number  of  people 
present.  All  were  on  their  best  behaviour,  the  very  servants  were 
mournful.  A  toy  royalty  was  present,  not  to  mention  an  upstart 
Balkan  prince  and  a  downtrodden  Grand  Duke,  supported  by 
members  of  the  diplomatic  corps  in  ornaments  and  ribbons:  those 

who  possessed  them  wore  miniature  medals  and  orders  on  their 

22 


HUMORESKE  23 

dress-coats.  Supper  was  just  beginning,  the  royal  personages  lead- 
ing the  way  downstairs.  Lord  Doncaster — who  is  known  to  have 
been  mistaken  for  his  butler  more  frequently  than  any  other  living 
nobleman — followed,  talking  in  a  loud  staccato  to  a  stagey  duchess. 

A  Court  party  of  some  kind  that  evening  gave  to  a  limited 
number  of  elderly  gentlemen  the  prescriptive  right  to  air  their 
handsome  legs  in  knee-breeches  and  silk-stockings,  and  to  tell  their 
acquaintances  what  a  bore  it  had  been. 

Mounting  the  staircase  the  two  arrivals  came  face  to  face  with 
a  stooping,  middle-aged  man  whose  iron-grey  hair  and  moustache 
set  off  the  half-wistful  expression  of  his  unlaughing  eyes.  His 
shirt-front  was  slashed  with  a  black-and-gold  ribbon,  while  upon 
his  arm  descended  a  tall  woman  with  a  magnificent  tiara  sparkling 
from  reddish-golden  hair.  The  figure  was  familiar  to  them  both. 
It  was  that  of  Lichknowsky,  the  German  Ambassador.  .  .  . 

From  the  ball-room  came  quivering  fragments  of  the  elusive 
valse  accompanied  by  a  thin  patter  of  dancing  feet.  Victorian 
grandes  dames,  loaded  with  tiaras  and  other  ammunition  of  their 
sex,  occupied  the  settees  and  chairs,  staring  at  everyone  who  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  audibly  and  shamelessly  inquiring  of  one 
another  his  or  her  name.  The  younger  people  seemed  stiffly  con- 
scious of  the  formality  of  the  affair ;  the  mode  of  dancing  was  sedate 
in  the  extreme. 

"Is  there  anybody  here  one  could  pick  the  leg  of  a  chicken 
with?"  demanded  Sinclair,  eyeing  the  somewhat  sparse  couples 
with  a  cold  eye  of  appraisal ;  "or  must  we  depart  in  peace  without 
even  tasting  the  champagne?" 

"Come  along!"  said  Knoyle,  pulling  at  his  friend's  sleeve.  "It's 
the  sort  of  show  where  you're  expected  to  ask  the  mother's  per- 
mission before  you  speak  to  the  daughter." 

Sinclair  always  followed  his  friend's  lead  in  such  matters.  But 
just  then  they  espied  Lady  Arden  and  her  daughter,  and  pro- 
ceeding to  pay  their  respects,  all  four  agreed  to  go  down  to  supper 
together. 

Lady  Arden,  a  scion  of  the  house  of  Doncaster — for  she  had 
been  a  Wardour — was  a  youngish  middle-aged  woman  with  a  vague 


24  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

dignity  and  prettiness  of  her  own.  Faith  Daventry  had  inherited 
her  mother's  charm  with  an  additional  freshness  that  bespoke  some- 
thing pleasant — an  English  spring  perhaps  or  a  Constable  land- 
scape. Hers  was  a  beauty  that  belongs  peculiarly  to  England — 
not  original  or  uncommon,  but  perennially  charming — a  beauty 
of  fair  hair,  regular  features,  and  a  country-bred  complexion:  of 
large  blue  eyes  that  looked  out  upon  the  world  with  a  serenity 
unusual  in  her  then  surroundings;  a  face  memorable,  Knoyle 
thought,  for  a  certain  courage  and  honesty.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  he  had  met  Lady  Arden,  but  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
met  Miss  Daventry.  She  was  Eric's  friend. 

The  conversation  began  as  usual  with  a  recital  of  forthcoming 
events,  of  balls  lately  given,  of  balls  about  to  be  given — more 
especially  of  the  Ascot  Races  that  were  due  the  week  following. 

"How  glad  I  shall  be  when  it's  all  over!"  sighed  Lady  Arden. 
"And  how  tired  this  child  will  be!  I  shall  send  her  to  bed  for 
a  week.  How  delightful  to  look  forward  to  a  quiet  life  for 
another  year " 

Unlike  Mrs.  Rivington,  she  meant  it. 

"Mother!"  protested  Miss  Daventry,  "you  don't  expect  me  to 
look  after  the  vegetables  for  a  year  on  end  without  a  soul  to  talk 
to  except  the  garden  boy?  Or  perhaps  you  do!" 

The  gentlemen  laughed — lightly,  suitably. 

"And  you  young  men?"  inquired  her  mother.  "What  do  you 
do  when  the  summer's  over?  Go  to  bed,  I  suppose.  ...  By  the 
way,  Faith,  didn't  we  say  we  wanted  somebody  to  come  and  stay 
with  us  for  that  dreadful  Bank  Holiday?" 

"Yes,"  said  Faith,  promptly;  "ask  them!  .  .  .  Both." 

Lady  Arden  turned  to  the  couple  with  her  comprehensive  smile. 

"I'd  like  to  come  very  much,"  was  Sinclair's  unhesitating  reply. 

"I  know  it's  ages  off,"  said  Lady  Arden,  addressing  Knoyle. 
"But  isn't  there  something  on  then?"  ("Cowes!"  interjected 
Faith.)  "Ah,  Cowes!  I  can't  tell  you  who's  coming  except  Lady 
Cranford  and  Rosemary  Meynell.  I  think  we've  asked  them, 
haven't  we,  my  dear?" 

"Of  course,  mother.    You  wrote  the  note  this  morning." 


HUMORESKE  25 

For  some  reason  the  three  young  people  looked  at  each  other 
and  laughed. 

Knoyle  had  hesitated  a  moment;  it  was  against  his  principles 
to  stay  with  people  he  didn't  know  well.  Perhaps  the  name  last- 
mentioned  decided  him.  At  any  rate,  Knoyle,  too,  accepted. 

Faith  said: 

"Splendid!  You  can  take  it  in  turns  to  punt  me  and  Rosie  on 
our  majestic  river.  Do  you  understand  rivers?" 

"Only  the  Thames,  ma'am,"  Eric  bowed. 

"Except  the  Thames,"  said  Adrian. 

"I  quite  agree,"  pursued  Miss  Daventry.  "Boulter's  Lock  on 
Ascot  Sunday.  .  .  !"  She  made  a  face. 

"What's  the  name  of  your  river,  Miss  Daventry?" 

"The  Rushwater.  Isn't  it  a  pretty  name?  And  it's  a  pretty 
little  river  flowing  out  of  a  pretty  little  lake.  And  there  are  all 
sorts  of  queer  birds  nesting  beside  it.  And  you  can  go  on  and 
on  to  where  it's  very  deep  and  quiet  and  you  get  lost.  Isn't  that 
the  sort  of  river  you  like,  Mr.  Knoyle  ?" 

"I  do,"  the  young  man  replied.  "I've  a  queer  hankering  some- 
times for  getting  lost." 

"Oh,  really!  .  .  ."  laughed  Eric.     "Sounds  like  Earl's  Court." 

They  rose  from  the  supper  table  and  Knoyle  took  his  leave. 
Faith  Daventry  and  Eric  Sinclair  went  up  to  dance. 

Of  his  friend's  friend,  trivial  as  the  exchanges  had  been,  Adrian 
Knoyle  felt  that  he  had  made  a  friend — with  a  certainty  that 
one  rarely  feels  on  meeting  a  person  for  the  first  time. 


It  was  to  a  small  party  given  by  an  uncommon  young  woman 
called  Gina  Maryon  that  he  now  repaired,  directing  his  cab-driver 
to  one  of  those  miniature  houses  which,  unknown  to  the  majority, 
lurk  in  the  corners  of  Berkeley  and  other  great  squares.  This  Gina 
Maryon  occupied  a  conspicuous  position.  She  had  pretensions  to 
advanced  literary  and  artistic  tastes,  "adored"  the  Vorticists,  "wor- 


26  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

shipped"  at  the  altar  of  Matisse;  a  little  later  no  doubt  she  became 
a  devotee  of  Mr.  Wyndham  Lewis.  Poetry — and  people — were 
her  particular  obsessions  (or  possessions).  Of  the  former  she  wrote 
quantities  in  a  hectic,  exotic  and  not  insignificant  strain,  though 
people  complained  that  it  was  overloaded  with  impropriety;  most 
of  her  friends  wrote  poetry,  too.  She  had  also  a  penchant  for 
extravaganza  in  clothes  and  in  house  decoration. 

Knoyle  walked  straight  into  the  Berkeley  Square  "maisonette," 
for  the  door  stood  open.  There  was  nowhere  to  put  one's  hat 
so  he  hid  his  behind  the  front  door.  The  narrow  staircase,  painted 
green  and  without  a  carpet,  was  so  choc-a-block  with  people  that 
he  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  reaching  the  first  floor.  Miss 
Maryon  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  was  engaged  in  having  her  hand 
kissed  by  a  )'oung  man  who  was  evidently  on  the  point  of  departing. 
This  young  man  was  perhaps  typical  of  the  breed  affected  by  this 
young  woman,  which  collectively  had  come  to  be  known  as  the 
"Clan  Maryon."  He  had  a  pale,  rather  unwholesome  face,  large 
dark  eyes  of  the  sort  called  "soulful,"  heavily-oiled  hair  brushed 
straight  back  from  the  forehead  and  an  elaborate  manner.  As 
he  bent  down  he  said: 

"Ah,  my  Gina!  What  an  evening — what  an  evening!  One 
of  your  best.  The  maisonette  reborn  and  your  exquisite  liqueurs 
and  your  still  more  exquisite  self — my  Gina,  I  see  life  through  the 
perfumed  haze  of  your  personality." 

(Knoyle  had  noticed  a  queer  musky  scent  on  entering  the  house.) 

"And  after  all  that  you  leave  my  house  at  the  preposterous 
hour  of  two,"  was  Miss  Maryon's  reply.  "What  ingratitude,  what 
mauvais  ton!  But,  ah!  out  of  the  way,  Harry — out  of  my  sight, 
monster!  A  guest!  .  .  .  Do  you  know  this  silly  fellow,  Mr. 
Knoyle — Harry  Upton?" 

The  two  men  nodded. 

Adrian  had  met  Miss  Maryon  only  two  or  three  times  before, 
and  had  been  surprised  at  receiving  an  invitation — scribbled  in 
pencil  on  the  back  of  an  advertisement  of  hats — to  her  "teeny 
party,  very  mixed."  For  these  were  essentially  Clan  Maryon  affairs 
and  he  was  in  no  sense  of  the  sacred  hierarchy.  Why  had  he 


HUMORESKE  27 

come?  Impelled  by  curiosity,  stimulated  by  the  unexpectedness 
of  the  thing,  intrigued  by  what  he  had  heard  of  the  Maryon  orgies 
• — intrigued  and  on  the  whole  flattered. 

And  Miss  Maryon  herself?  There  was  something  bird-like 
about  her.  Like  a  bird,  she  seemed  to  live  and  move  on  springs. 
She  never  walked,  she  hopped  or  darted.  She  chattered  away 
like  a  willow-wren  in  a  high-pitched  treble.  She  often  sang.  .  .  . 
She  was  very  small  too.  Her  features  were  small  and  sharp, 
extraordinarily  animated  and  mobile,  half-a-dozen  quick  expressions 
flitting  across  them  in  as  many  seconds.  Easily-pleased  people  called 
her  "fascinating" — and  really  she  was.  Her  violet  eyes  were  fas- 
cinating when  they  flashed  sideways  up  at  you:  she  fascinated 
deliberately,  especially  when  she  thought  her  victim  resented  the 
effect.  And  there  was  the  unusual  offset  of  her  wavy  auburn  hair. 
Her  quick  bird-like  intelligence  was  attractive  too — her  versatility 
— her  sympathy,  simulated  or  otherwise,  her  retaliatory  wit — all 
these  people  found  magnetic. 

"Sit  down  and  talk  to  me!"  she  said.  But  Miss  Maryon  did 
all  the  talking — mainly  about  nothing.  Adrian,  for  his  part,  was 
too  much  interested  in  the  doings  around  him  to  take  particular 
heed  of  what  she  said.  All  the  same,  he  became  subtly  aware  that 
she  was  out  to  dazzle,  that  sex-consciously  she  was  sizing  him  up, 
that  all  the  while  she  was  asking  him  questions  out  of  the  side- 
glance  of  her  violet  eyes. 

The  room  was  an  extraordinary  one.  It  had — as  Miss  Maryon 
assured  him  in  requesting  his  opinion  of  it — been  newly  "done 
up."  (This  happened  on  an  average  once  a  year  according  to 
fashion.)  The  walls  were  of  peacock  green,  the  ceiling  yellow 
and  in  one  corner  stood  a  sort  of  shrine  half-hidden  by  black  and 
gold  striped  hangings.  The  furniture  was  of  ebony  inlaid  with 
triangular  ivory  patterns  and  looked  as  if  it  might  have  come  from 
Munich  via  Paris;  the  enormous  sofa  upon  which  they  sat  and 
which  occupied  the  whole  of  one  end  of  the  smallish  drawing-room 
was  black,  littered  with  rainbow  cushions.  Instead  of  pictures  on 
the  walls,  one  found  white  marble  bas-reliefs  of  archaic  men  and 
women,  while  upon  the  mantelpiece  reposed  curious  disproportioned 


28  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

wooden  figures,  egg-shaped  heads  cast  in  bronze,  and  white  china 
bowls  filled  with  fruit  carved  in  cream-coloured  stone. 

In  this  curious  apartment  with  its  waxed  floor — and  on  the 
landing  outside  and  on  the  stairs — the  whole  of  the  Clan  Maryon 
was  congregated.  At  either  end  of  it  was  set  a  green  baize  table 
around  which  were  gathered  groups  of  men  and  women.  Laughter, 
but  also  a  certain  intensity  of  expression  was  written  on  their 
faces,  and  such  remarks  as  "Banquo!"  or  "I  pass,"  or  "Your  ante," 
came  out  of  silences ;  while  from  the  other  table  came  the  perpetual 
whir  of  a  spinning-top,  and  there  "little  horses"  could  be  seen 
careering  very  fast  round  a  squared  and  coloured  board.  Money 
gleamed  in  the  electric-light,  momentary  pauses  were  broken  by 
the  "chink"  of  it.  The  peculiar  scent  of  the  room  may  well  have 
derived  from  the  cigarette-smoke  which  hung  about  like  a  heavy 
perfume  until  Knoyle  began  to  feel  queer  in  his  head.  It  appeared 
to  surprise  nobody  that  a  couple  had  dropped  off  to  sleep  on  a 
divan.  At  the  piano,  a  trio  sang  to  the  accompaniment  of  drum 
and  banjoline.  Now  and  then  another  couple  would  rise  from 
the  floor,  on  which  a  fair  proportion  of  the  company  disposed  itself, 
dance  a  few  steps,  then  squat  down  aagin.  From  below-stairs  came 
the  "pop"  of  champagne  corks.  Laughter  come  from  the  upstairs 
direction.  .  .  . 

Giano  Maryon  though  by  birth  a  "perfect  lady"  (as  she  was 
wont  to  describe  herself) — and  even  a  Mrs.  Maryon  was  hidden 
away  somewhere,  invalidish — Gina  Maryon  made  a  specialty  of, 
apart  from  her  owrn  little  mutual  admiration  society,  gathering 
together  the  oddest  people,  or,  as  she  said,  "anybody  with  talent, 
anybody  with  character."  The  men  were  certainly  unusual-look- 
ing: one,  with  hair  as  long  as  a  girl's,  was  attired  in  a  suit  of 
green  velvet,  another  affected  a  D'Orsay  bow  with  a  soft-fronted 
evening  shirt;  the  majority,  to  Knoyle's  critical  gaze,  appeared 
none  too  well  shaved.  As  to  the  women,  they  included  musical 
comedy  actresses  and  "real"  actresses,  professional  singers,  and 
clever  little  comics  who  killed  you  outright  on  the  variety  stage. 
There  was  "Chips"  who  plays  "any  old  part  you  like  to  name" 
and  Trixie  of  the  peroxide  hair.  There  were  the  daughters  of  peers 


HUMORESKE  29 

and  the  sisters  and  first  cousins  of  peers.  There  were  no  chaperons. 
Downstairs  in  the  passage  was  to  be  found  an  amazing  array  of 
cocktails  and  liqueurs  of  rainbow  hue  and  a  man  in  a  white  coat 
mixing  them — but  not  much  to  eat. 

Although  Society  (with  a  big  S)  smiled  or  frowned,  said  the 
Clan  Maryon  was  "extraordinary,"  "impossible"  or  "not  nice," 
while  its  avowed  enemies  called  Gina  "second-rate" — its  doings 
were  the  source  of  the  most  enjoyable  scandal.  And  Society  re- 
spected, feared,  and  even  rather  adored  the  Maryonites ;  for  Society 
loves  to  be  despised.  They  were  clever  after  all,  you  couldn't  get 
away  from  that — they  were  clever.  And — original!  .  .  .  And 
what  did  young  Mr.  Knoyle  think  as  he  descended  the  stairs  (for 
there  was  no  particular  reason  to  stay,  he  didn't  know  anybody 
except  Gina)  ?  He  couldn't  forget  that  dusky,  musky  cloud. 
There  it  was  hanging  over  you,  hanging  over  the  house  and  all 
the  people  in  it.  He  knew  these  people — or  thought  he  did.  At 
the  last — they  were  sensualists.  They  hungered  for  a  full  and 
changing  life.  Their  life  was  a  cinematograph.  They  were  actors 
and  actresses,  every  one  of  them.  All  the  same,  he  did  feel  flattered 
— it 'wasn't  everybody  who  could  float  into  the  maisonette  Maryon 
or  be  encouraged  thereto  by  the  genie  herself.  No.  .  .  .  Yet  a 
more  imperious  magnet  drew  him  back  to  the  Astoria. 

§3 

Everything  was  still  going  full  swing  in  the  mirrored  pillared 
ball-room.  Here  Knoyle  felt  himself  back  in  an  atmosphere  of 
normality.  The  Blue  Hungarians  were  sawing  away  at  their 
violins,  the  multi-coloured  frocks  were  whirling  round  and  round, 
the  gallant  young  men,  each  of  whom  had  by  now  drunk  his 
bottle  of  champagne,  were  uplifted  on  a  pinnacle  of  gaiety;  only 
the  "wallflowers"  with  their  mammas  and  chaperons  had  faded 
away. 

The  first  person  Adrian's  glance  discovered  on  his  entrance  was 
Rosemary  Meynell.  He  stood  for  some  time  watching  her:  he 
was  held  by  the  grace  of  her  movements,  the  facility  of  her  steps — 


30  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

by  elderly  sporting  gentlemen  such  as  she  had  been  compared 
to  a  thoroughbred  filly.  A  warmer  flush  had  risen  in  her  cheeks 
now,  a  spark  of  devilry  had  come  into  her  eyes,  and  these  cor- 
responded to  his  own  heightened  impressionability.  She  was  grace- 
ful and  she  was  nai've.  .  .  .  And  then  unaccountably  his  mind 
went  back  to  Gina  Maryon.  But  it  was  not  until  he  had  been 
watching  Rosemary  for  some  minutes  that  he  realised  with  whom 
she  was  dancing.  Her  partner  was  the  young  man  to  whom  he 
had  so  lately  been  introduced.  His  name? — he  could  not  remember. 

The  music  stopped  and  the  various  couples  passed  out  of  the 
ball-room.  Rosemary  and  her  partners  sat  down  at  a  table  in 
the  outer  salon,  and  during  the  brief  interval  Knoyle  found  himself 
studying  them  in  the  opposite  mirror — the  man's  declamatory  con- 
versation accompanied  by  smiles  and  a  play  of  hands  like  a  foreigner, 
the  girl's  animated  response.  Mr.  What's-his-name  evidently  chose 
to  make  himself  agreeable  outside  his  own  circle!  But  what  was 
he  doing  here — this  palpable  Maryonite? 

The  violins  quavered.  He  went  to  claim  his  dance  with  Rose- 
mary, saluting  her  partner  with  a  brief  nod.  Then  they  were 
gliding  together  over  the  comparatively  empty  floor.  It  was  not 
until  they  had  made  a  full  circuit  of  the  room  that  the  rhythm 
of  the  music  impressed  itself  upon  him,  and  he  recognised  the  air 
whose  fitful  cadences  had  floated  out  through  the  open  windows 
of  Doncaster  House. 

"What  a  queer,  lovely  thing!"  said  Rosemary.    Their  eyes  met. 

"Yes,  it's  haunting — and  gay  and  sad,"  he  replied,  lightly  "all 
in  one.  Hirsch  always  gives  you  value  for  your  money."  Some- 
how his  little  finger  twined  round  hers.  "By  the  bye,  I  simply 
must  go  somewhere  and  have  a  lesson  in  reversing." 

"What's  it  called?"  she  asked,  ignoring  his  last  remark. 

"We'll  ask." 

He  had  caught  Hirsch's  fishy  eye,  and  when  they  passed  close 
to  the  great  man  he  called  out: 

"What's  this  thing,  Hirsch?" 

"  'Humoreske,'  Meester  Knoyle  ...  of  Dvorak." 

"Ah,  thanks." 


HUMORESKE  31 

She  bent  her  head  to  catch  the  word  and  he  was  suddenly 
aware  of  the  graceful  curve  of  her  neck  and  of  her  ear  with  its 
little  pearl,  which  reminded  him  of  some  transparently  delicate 
sea-shell. 

"  'Humoreske!'  "  she  repeated.     "I  must  remember  it." 


§4 

Neither  he  nor  she  perhaps  ever  forgot  that  dance:  how  it 
stopped;  how  they  applauded;  how  it  stopped  again,  and  how 
they — and  the  other  remaining  couples — insisted  that  it  should  go  on 
yet  again.  And  it  went  on.  Lost  as  he  was  in  the  pleasure  of 
steering  his  partner,  their  joint  movement  seemed  to  synchronise 
without  effort;  in  the  first  moment  of  dancing  they  felt  drawn 
to  each  other  by  an  impalpable  sympathy.  An  electric  thrill  sent 
them  turning,  turning  in  long  sweeps  round  and  across  the  room, 
talking  the  while,  and  laughing.  Their  hands  gripped  and  pressed. 
At  last  they  fell  silent.  They  seemed  to  dance  as  one  person. 
Their  thoughts : 

Hers:  "A  nice  boy.  He  dances  well.  He's  interesting — and 
quite  good-looking.  I  wonder  .  .  .  what's  he  like  really?" 

His:  "Something  must  come  of  this.  She's  not  a  girl,  she's 
a  dream.  I  wish  this  would  go  on — and  on.  ...  No,  I  don't. 
I  want  to  talk  to  her,  to  be  alone  with  her,  to  know  her." 

The  dance  over,  they  climbed  up  to  the  famous  roof-garden 
and  sat  down  on  a  seat  in  the  darkest  corner.  They  were  alone. 
This  roof-garden  looks  out  over  the  Green  Park  and  down  Pic- 
cadilly westward.  The  London  night  was  already  paling  towards 
dawn.  Except  for  the  occasional  whir  of  a  taxicab,  rumble  of 
a  market  cart  or  swish  of  the  hose-driven  water  sousing  Piccadilly, 
no  sound  came  up  to  the  ears  of  the  two,  seated  close  together. 

They  were  intensely  aware  of  each  other. 

Adrian  said: 

"How  wonderfully  you  dance,  Lady  Rosemary!" 

"Do  I?    Well — it  rather  depends  on  whom  I'm  dancing  with," 


32  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

A  glow  of  pleasure  suffused  him.  He  became  sensible,  power- 
fully sensible,  of  the  gentle,  musical,  almost  caressing  timbre  of 
her  voice. 

"I  find  that,  too,"  he  said.  "With  some  people  one  can  dance — 
endlessly  without  an  effort.  And  with  some  people — the  Miss 
Kenelms  for  instance — it's  the  very  devil  to  get  round  the  room 
once." 

"Yes—it  depends." 

"Don't  you  think  it's  like  people  one  meets  for  the  first  time — 
sometimes  you've  got  to  make  conversation  for  half-an-hour  before 
you  say  anything,  and  sometimes  you  get  on  with  them  like  a 
house-on-fire  straightaway." 

"Are  you  still  thinking  of  the  Miss  Kenelms?"  she  laughed. 

"No— of  life  in  general." 

"I  really  know  so  little  of  life  in  general.     So  I  can't  say." 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  believe  that?" 

"I  know  nothing  of  life  at  all."  He  had  an  idea  she  was 
laughing  at  him:  all  the  same  her  hand  lay  very  temptingly  near 
to  his.  "Mamma's  always  been  so  strict,  you  see.  I've  only  been 
outside  the  front  door  about  twice  without  a  maid  or  somebody. 
It's  frightfully  annoying  when  lots  of  emancipated  young  females 
have  such  a  good  time." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  take  the  law  into  your  own  hands." 

His  fingers  touched  hers.  "There's  nothing  like  being  a  law 
unto  oneself  in  this  world." 

"What — how  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Why — having  a  good  time." 

"You — you'll  have  to  lead  the  way,  then." 

"I  will — Rosemary."  He  held  all  of  her  hand  now  and  she 
made  no  attempt  to  withdraw  it. 

"By  the  by  .  .  .  who  told  you  you  could  call  me  by  my  Christian 
name?" 

"Not  your  mamma,  my  dear." 

Both  laughed.  She  said: 

"What  a  very  go-ahead  young  man!  .  .  .  Please!" 

She  attempted  to  withdraw  her  hand. 


HUMORESKE  33 

"Oh,  no!  No,  my  child.  Not  so  easy.  I  don't  think"— and 
he  squeezed  her  hand  as  tight  as  he  could. 

In  the  gloom,  he  could  just  discern  the  outline  of  a  shapely 
head  on  a  slender  neck. 

"Are  you  in  the  habit  of — of  doing  this  sort  of  thing,  Mr. ?" 

"Adrian,"  he  put  in.    "Yes— no." 

"Which  do  you  mean?" 

"No— you're  the  first." 

"I'm  flattered." 

His  arm  was  around  her. 

"Don't  Mr. — Whatever-your-name-is — please!  Leave  me — 
leave  me,  alone  I" 

"Mamma  wouldn't  like  it — eh  ?" 

"/  don't  like  it.    It's— silly." 

"Is  it?     I'm  teaching  you  ...  a  thing  or  two — see?" 

"Behave  yourself  then!" 

"Not  a  gentleman,  am  I?" 

"No,  by  Jove!"  she  laughed.    "You're  a— ass." 

"'By  Jove!'  Who  taught  you  that  expression?  How  in  the 
name  of  girlhood !" 

She  looked  up  at  him.    She  deliberately  provoked. 

Their  lips  were  near. 

"I  want — to  know  you  better." 

"I  daresay  you  do,  but  you  won't  ever  know  me  better  unless 
you  let  go  of  my  hand  at  once,  and  take  your  arm  away  from — 
where  it's  no  business  to  be." 

Instead,  he  drew  her  quite  firmly  towards  him. 

"No,  really — be  good!  I  ask  you  .  .  .  Adrian!"  she  protested 
— yielding. 

Gently  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

They  remained  enclasped  for  several  moments,  the  dawn  break- 
ing opaquely  above  them. 

"Hark!"  A  chord  of  familiar  music  came  faintly  to  their  ears 
through  the  glass  doors  and  up  the  iron  stairway.  It  was  the 
first  bar  of  "God  save  the  King." 

The  ball  was  over.  . 


34  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"Great  Scott!"  she  exclaimed.    "We  must  run  for  our  lives." 

"Yes,  but  we  shall  often  meet  again?"  He  said  this  pleadingly 
as  they  hurried  down  the  stairway  to  the  ball-room;  "at  Ascot 
next  week  and — at  dances?" 

"Not  after  Ascot."  She  was  suddenly  and  irritatingly  demure. 
"We  go  away  after  Ascot.  Mamma  wants  to  pay  visits." 

"You're  coming  to  the  Ardens'  later  on  though,  for  the  week- 
end?" 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  laughed — unexpectedly.  They 
had  reached  the  outer  hall. 

"That  depends."  Her  glance  challenged  his.  "We  may  go  to 
Cowes.  .  .  .  Good  night!" 

§  5 

Adrian  Knoyle  walked  home.  The  many  clocks  of  London  were 
striking  four,  and  a  clear  pearly-blue  light  reigned  in  the  streets, 
deserted  now  except  for  twittering  sparrows  and  scavenging  cats. 
Once  or  twice  a  taxicab  or  market-lorry  rattled  down  Piccadilly. 
But  of  the  city's  myriad  human  population  the  only  visible  signs 
were  an  occasional  policeman  and  the  haggard  uncivilised-looking 
waifs  who  nightly  take  such  rest  as  they  can  get  on  the  bare  wooden 
seats  of  Piccadilly,  or  against  its  inhospitable  railings. 

Something  fresh,  clean,  and  even  beautiful,  nevertheless,  seemed 
to  come  to  the  familiar  thoroughfares  in  this,  their  unfamiliar, 
guise.  And  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  half-a-dozen  hours 
earlier  they  had  pulsed  beneath  the  moving  mystery  of  the  London 
night;  that  six  hours  hence  they  would  again  be  the  vortex  of  the 
everyday  whirl. 

The  pavement  forsook  the  young  gentleman.  He  trod  on  air. 
It  had  been  a  memorable  night — perhaps  the  most  memorable  of 
his  life  so  far.  Was  he  "in  love?"  Had  he  that  very  night 
set  foot  on  the  unknown  road?  .  .  .  The  fact  is  he  wasn't  quite 
sure.  How  could  he  be  sure?  There  had  of  course  been  mild 
experiments  in  different  notes  and  keys — indifferent  experiments. 
These,  it  is  true,  he  had  not  sought ;  they  had  been  made  for  him. 


HUMORESKE  35 

Lily,  for  instance — Miss  Truss.  How  at  last  he  had  come  to 
detest  this  young  woman  who  threw  a  leg  at  the  hippodrome, 
an  eye  at  the  stalls,  and  her  womanly  virtue  at  the  highest  bidder! 
How  he  had  come  to  detest  her,  with  her  "Haven't  you  got  a 
present  for  me,  dear?" — her  "boys  in  the  Guards,"  her  ubiquitous 
"girl  friend,"  her  censorious  allusions  to  "commonness"  in  all  who 
were  less  common  than  she.  Eric  and  he  had  quarrelled  about  Lily. 
For  it  was  Eric  who  insisted  on  Lily — as  a  sort  of  diet — Eric 
who  insisted  that  Miss  Truss  must  be  "made  up  to" — that  he, 
Adrian,  was  "slow  off  the  mark" — and  "unenterprising" — that 
Miss  Truss  regarded  him  as  "one  of  the  sweetest  boys  she  had  ever 
known,"  and  that  in  return  for  this  unearned  compliment  Miss 
Truss  must  be  regaled  with  supper  and  champagne.  At  length, 
after  a  little  enterprise  and  much  expense,  his  inveterate  repulsion 
to  Miss  Truss  had  got  the  better  of  him :  he  had  struck,  not  indeed 
Miss  Truss,  but  his  friend — very  nearly. 

And  there  was  Miss  Pearl  Stucley.  Pearl,  it  is  true,  came  into 
a  different  category,  but  she  likewise  had  been  introduced  by  Eric 
under  the  label  "hellish  hot-stuff."  Not  that  he  disliked  Miss 
Stucley:  she  was  provocative  and  she  was  amusing.  She  was  a 
lady.  But  he  disliked  making  love  to  Miss  Stucley — still  more 
he  disliked  Miss  Stucley  making  love  to  him.  To  the  one  or 
the  other  seemed  no  alternative — in  gallantry  (and  yet  unaccount- 
ably) he  became  an  accessory  after  the  fact.  What  a  relief  it  was 
when  Miss  Stucley  came  to  the  decision  that  he  was  "hopeless," — 
and  so  informed  her  friends!  With  what  pleasure  he  turned  to 
less  exacting  pursuits  after  Eric  had  affably  called  him  a  "bloody 
fool"! 

As  to  "love"  then — a  word  he  detested — it  was  an  unimagined — 
and  in  any  conscious  sense,  an  undesired — thing.  Its  only  concrete 
expression  for  him  were  Eric's  bi-weekly  occupations  with  chorus- 
girls.  And  of  these  he  grew  weary;  the  details  were  always  the 
same.  If,  therefore,  he  had  ever  thought  about  the  matter  at  all, 
it  was  to  look  up  at  the  sky  and  see  a  child's  vision  of  Heaven — 
some  ultimate  vision  of  perfection,  but  one  without  any  sort  of 
comprehensible  reality.  .  .  .  Then  Rosemary  sprang  into  the  pic- 


36  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

ture.  "A  girl-and-a-half,"  he  muttered  to  himself:  he  wasn't  a 
poet — yet.  There  she  was  with  her  saucy  way,  her  beauty  and 
her  dashing  grace.  No  wonder  London  raved  about  her.  .  .  There 
she  was,  beckoning  to  him,  laughing  at  him,  then  eluding  him,  then 
being  a  darling  again.  The  night  had  been  a  rapture.  What 
would  come  of  it  ?  More  nights  like  this  before  the  summer  ended, 
nights  when  one  saw  all  people  and  all  things — even  Mrs.  Riving- 
ton  having  supper — in  a  pearly,  rainbow-tinted  mist;  a  series  of 
nights  culminating  in — a  week-end.  Was  that  "love?"  The  vul- 
garity of  the  interpretation  struck  him — it  sounded  like  a  joke  at 
a  music-hall;  he  didn't  laugh.  She  dominated  him — there  was 
no  doubt  about  that.  She  possessed  him  altogether.  Life  without 
her — unthinkable.  But — life  at  that  moment  sparkled  like  the  dew 
on  the  Green  Park. 


CHAPTER  III 
At  the  Races 


THE  fashionable  and  famous  Ascot  Races  duly  took  place  in  the 
week  following  the  Rodriguez  ball.  Glorious  weather  combined 
with  first-class  racing.  "  'Everybody'  in  London,"  as  the  half- 
penny newspapers  paradoxically  said,  "was  to  be  seen  in  the  Royal 
Enclosure." 

The  first  and  second  days  of  the  meeting,  Rosemary  Meynell 
and  Adrian  Knoyle  spent  together — Faith  Daventry  and  Eric  Sin- 
clair also  pairing  off — running  up  and  down  stands,  Adrian  strug- 
gling to  the  railings  of  TattersalFs  and  offering  Rosemary's  shillings 
to  unwilling  bookmakers,  darting  to  the  telegraph  office,  rushing 
back  again,  walking  about  in  the  Paddock,  and  having  long-drawn- 
out  teas  and  luncheons  a  quatre.  It  was  a  merry  time.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps my  lady  of  Cranford  came  to  the  discreet  conclusion  that 
her  admired  daughter — as  to  whose  future  she  soared  a  good  deal 
higher  than  Mr.  Adrian  Knoyle — had  been  seeing  enough  of  this 
young  gentleman.  Anyhow  on  the  third  day,  that  of  the  Gold 
Cup,  the  ladies  were  nowhere  to  be  seen  when  the  bell  rang  for 
the  first  race.  This  was  a  heavy  blow  to  their  respective  admirers. 
who  spent  some  time  wandering  disconsolately  between  the  luncheon- 
tent  and  the  stands.  Adrian,  for  his  part,  was  surprised  at  the 
force  of  his  inward  disturbance  and  apprehension :  would  Rosemary 
finally  turn  up?  Then  he  lost  Eric  (who  went  off  to  make  a  bet) 
and  found  himself  high  up  in  the  stand  awaiting,  like  everybody 
else,  the  Royal  Procession,  which  presently  appeared  at  the  Golden 
Gates  and  came  bowling  up  the  lawn-like  sward  of  the  Straight 
Mile,  its  scarlet  outriders  bobbing  up  and  down  against  the  dark 
green  of  the  pine-woods.  Its  approach  was  heralded  by  the  faint 

37 


38  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

cheers  of  the  crowds  in  the  further  rings  which  floated  up  the 
course,  swelling  to  a  roar  as  the  procession  passed,  and  all  the 
hats  went  off. 

The  polite  crowd  then  began  moving  towards  the  paddock. 
Adrian's  attention  was  held  by  the  varied  movement,  though 
he  searched  for  one  figure  only  and  for  one  face.  What  a  conun- 
drum it  was,  he  reflected,  this  world  of  fashion,  what  a  conundrum 
and  what  an  illusion!  He  saw,  upon  the  one  hand,  those  who, 
standing  upon  the  verge  of  the  Court  and  partaking  of  its  Con- 
servatism, represented  that  which  was  best  in  the  old  order  of 
England:  the  landowners,  the  feudal  title-holders,  the  aristocracy 
of  sport  and  of  tradition,  men  of  principle,  men  who  lived  by  a 
strict  code  of  ethics  for  the  established  order,  their  class,  and  their 
dependents.  He  saw,  upon  the  other  hand — and  they  were  unmis- 
takable— those  who,  freely  endowed  with  this  world's  goods,  recked 
neither  of  yesterday  nor  of  to-morrow,  but  lived  for  to-day,  remain- 
ing themselves  insensible  to  the  democratic  trend  of  the  hour, 
because  they  ignored  it. 

Of  the  women,  England  seemed  to  him  to  produce  a  class  which 
no  Continental  country  has  produced,  and  of  which  the  United 
States  has  served  up  only  an  imitation  (unless  by  absorption)  ; 
this  class  lacking  the  chic  of  the  Frenhwoman  or  any  parade  of 
up-to-dateness,  yet  excelling  in  an  elegance  of  manner  and  of 
disposition,  in  a  kind  of  personality  not  to  be  engrafted,  but  by 
its  very  unself  consciousness  instinct  with  the  dignity  of  a  Romney 
portrait.  Not  that  vulgarity  was  absent.  It  everywhere  jostled 
with  good  breeding  and  correctness,  in  the  mere  unimaginativeness 
of  conventionalised  people,  in  the  flaunting  class-consciousness  of 
the  occasion.  It  everywhere  presented  itself.  Even  at  times  a 
touch  of  crudity  crept  in,  of  the  music-hall,  something  bizarre, 
a  rather  blatant  sex-vanity. 

The  unreality  of  the  scene  and  its  composite  glamour  were 
not  lost  upon  Knoyle  any  more  than  the  stirring  movement  of 
the  midnight  crowd  in  Piccadilly  Circus  had  been.  But  did  he 
reflect  upon  its  potentialities,  upon  the  substantial  quality  beneath 
these  masks  of  men  and  women  who  had  pursued  the  same  round 


AT  THE  RACES  39 

as  their  forefathers  for  a  century  or  more — and  would  continue 
so  to  do  ?  The  bubble  pricked,  the  bubble  of  manners  and  ancestry 

and  fine  clothes ?     But  was  it  a  bubble?  .  .  .     What  then 

would  the  catastrophic  act  reveal?  A  bubble  burst,  a  conscience 
and  a  character  behind,  a  mask  torn  from  the  face  of  mere  pretence, 
a  fine  and  noble  human  spirit,  emptiness  only — or  what? 

Knoyle  did  not  in  fact  debate  these  abstruse  questions — why 
should  he?  In  the  brilliance  of  the  June  afternoon,  in  the  strong 
whitish  glare,  in  the  crowd  and  colour  and  movement,  he  looked 
only  for  one  face.  In  the  brilliance  of  the  June  afternoon  the 
parasols  made  a  variegated  screen,  and  there  was  needed  no  other 
to  hide  the  thunder-clouds  gathering  slowly  above  the  Swinley 
Woods. 

§2 

It  was  not  until  after  the  race  for  the  Gold  Cup  that  he  ran 
into  Rosemary  Meynell.  He  had  previously  met  Gina  Maryon, 
marvellously  attired  in  black  and  gold,  tortuously  embroidered, 
and  crested  with  Bird  of  Paradise  feathers.  She  flashed  upon  him 
a  "brilliant"  glance — which  annoyed  him — and,  not  having  been 
previously  acquainted  with  her  daylight  aspect,  he  was  struck  by 
the  bright  auburn  of  her  hair  in  contrast  with  the  violet  eyes  and 
the  vivid  scarlet  lips. 

"Mr.  Knoyle,  assist  a  woman  in  distress!  My  friends  avoid 
me.  Even  my  Harry  has  left  me  in  the  lurch.  He  went  to 
back  a  horse  .  .  ." 

"I  hope  you  had  a  good  race  over  the  Cup." 

"Me — a  good  race?  Aleppo!  My  dear  man,  I  never  win. 
I  bet  to  make  money.  But  the  only  people  who  make  money 
are  the  people  who  don't  try  to — and  don't  need  to.  Come! 
Let  us  find  our  friends,  let  us  find  these  base  people  who  have 
deserted  us." 

They  walked  round  the  paddock,  and  every  other  minute  Gina 
stopped  to  talk  to  somebody  she  knew,  her  tinkling  laugh  sounding 
high  above  the  general  hum.  She  talked  in  a  curiously  random 


40  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

manner,  darting  from  one  subject  to  another  with  disconcerting 
freedom. 

"My  God,  isn't  it  hot?  Don't  you  long  to  take  all  your  clothes 
off?  Why  are  the  most  energetic  days  of  the  year  always  the 
hottest?  And  why  isn't  it  fashionable  to  wear  bathing  dresses 
at  Ascot?" 

"Some  people  wouldn't  be  much  cooler  if  they  did,"  he  answered. 
A  diaphanous  frock  had  just  passed.  He  was  wondering  why 
Gina  had  selected  him  to  accompany  her  on  her  quest. 

Then — it  was  singular — they  came  upon  Rosemary,  talking  to 
a  pale-faced  young  man  who  wore  a  bow-tie,  a  hat  with  a  curly 
brim,  and  was  altogether  rather  untidy.  Gina  cried  out: 

"The  guilty  couple!  Harry — where  have  you  been?  I  waited 
for  you — and  no  you.  If  there  is  anything  more  inconstant  than 
a  modern  husband,  it's  a  young  man  at  a  race  meeting." 

"My  apologies,  dear  friend."  He  bowed  and  turned  depre- 
catingly  to  Rosemary.  "I  found  Lady  Rosemary — in  distress.  We 
made  a  little  bet  together.  We  returned  to  the  stand.  We  looked 
for  you.  You  were  gone — like  a  beau-ti-ful  butterfly." 

Rosemary  and  Adrian  had  exchanged  no  greeting,  but  a  new 
thing  had  crept  into  their  faces,  into  their  whole  demeanour. 
Gina's  violet  eyes  watched  them  from  under  half-closed  lids,  though 
they  did  not  know  it. 

Adrian  thereupon  introduced  Rosemary  to  Gina,  the  two  girls 
looking  at  each  other  with  frank  interest — the  one  already  a  fixed 
star  in  the  social  firmament,  the  other  as  yet  a  planet  of  uncertain 
magnitude.  In  her  grey  muslin  frock  and  hat,  Rosemary  (thought 
Adrian)  looked  like  a  fragile  piece  of  Dresden  china.  The  contrast 
between  the  two  couples  was  indeed  unmistakable,  the  one  repre- 
senting something  actual  and  mature,  the  other,  Youth  on  the 
threshold  of  Experience. 

Then  the  saddling-bell  rang  and  Gina  announced  that  she  wanted 
to  go  and  see  the  race  for  the  St.  James's  Palace  Stakes.  Adrian, 
turning  to  Rosemary,  said: 

"What  about  tea — and  strawberries?" 

So  together  they  strolled  across  the  course,  through  the  gipsies, 


AT  THE  RACES  41 

through  the  scrambling  children  who  begged  for  pennies,  the  "out- 
side" bookmakers,  the  ice-cream  and  sherbet  vendors,  the  cocoanut- 
shy  men,  until  they  found  refuge  in  a  club  marquee  comparatively 
cool  and  yet  not  too  full  of  people. 

Their  world  had  become  interesting  again. 

§3 

"Who's  that  friend  of  Gina  Maryon's  you  were  talking  to?" 
he  inquired,  after  he  had  called  for  strawberries-and-cream  and 
iced  coffee.  "I  met  him  at  that  dance  of  hers  the  other  night, 
and  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  remember  the  blighter's  name." 

"That  ?  Oh,  that's  a  man  called  Upton.  He's  private  secretary 
to  somebody  in  the  Home  Office — or  some  sort  of  office.  He's 
quite  too  appallingly  clever,  and  also  rich,  and  also — oh!  well, 
funny." 

"Where  did  you  meet  him?" 

"In  the  street,  I  think — no,  I  mean  Mrs.  Clinton's  tea-party, 
or  somewhere.  He's  a  poet." 

"I  should  think  so.  He's  very  much  of  a  Maryonite,  isn't  he? 
And  what  did  you  think  of  the  inimitable  Gina?" 

"Oh,  attractive,  Adrian — very !  Different  from  what  I  expected, 
too.  I  thought  all  the  women  had  dead-white  faces,  large  liquid 
eyes,  and  looked  at  you  for  five  minutes  before  they  spoke.  But, 
Gina — I  should  like  to  meet  her  again." 

"She's  like  that  sometimes,  too.  It  just  depends.  It  depends 
on  the  people  she's  with,  the  sort  of  frock  she's  got  on,  how  she's 
feeling,  and  perhaps  the  kind  of  light  she's  standing  in." 

Rosemary  laughed. 

"I'd  like  to  meet  her  again,  though.  I  like  meeting  funny  sorts 
of  people — different  sorts." 

"Do  you  call  me  a  funny  sort  of  person — or  a  different  sort?" 

"Oh!  you?    You're  neither.    You're  just—you." 

"A  fixture?" 

"Just  so,  sir." 

"A  bit  of  furniture." 


42  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"That's  it." 

"A  chiffonier — or  a  bedstead  ?" 

"I  dunno  .  .  .  something  pretty  substantial,  I  should  think." 

"Not  a  brand-new  thing  from  Maple's,  all  rawness  and  shine, 
but  a  good,  solid,  handsome,  worthy  bit  of  mahogany — eh?  Some- 
thing you'd  like  to  have  about  the  home  and  keep  by  you — to  last  ?" 

"Yes,  I  like  something  that'll  last — that  won't  break  if  you  sit 
on  it  or  knock  up  against  it  or  kick  it — something  that'll  go  on 
for  ever.  And  I'm  rather  violent  sometimes,  you  know." 

They  watched  each  other's  eyes,  forgetting  all  about  the  straw- 
berries. 

"You  get  tired  of  things  and  want  to  scrap  'em,  eh?" 

"Perhaps,"  she  answered  briefly.     "Not  old  friends,  though." 

"But  you  like  constantly  meeting  new  people — odd  people?  I 
wonder  where  you  get  that  from." 

"I  like  being  amused.  .  .  .  And  then  I  like  having — one — or 
two — pals  I  can  come  back  to.  That's  me.  That's  Rosemary." 

Under  the  table  her  small  foot  was  held  prisoner  between  his 
big  ones.  And  in  the  subdued  light  of  the  tent  she  appeared 
puzzling,  evasive,  childlike,  and  in  a  sense  unreal.  But  he  was 
perfectly  clear  now  as  to  what  she  meant  to  him. 

They  did  not  speak  for  several  moments. 

"We  must  make  up  our  minds,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"Apropos  of  what?" 

"That  week-end    .  .  ." 

"But  you've  made  up  your  mind — you've  accepted." 

"I  shall  get  out  of  it  then — unless  you  go." 

"I  don't  think  we  shall  go.  Mamma's  let  us  in  for  the  Don- 
casters'  yacht — practically." 

She  said  this  teasingly. 

"You  leave  London  next  week?" 

"Alas!  yes." 

"Then  we  shan't  see  each  other  again  till — God  knows  when?" 
There  was  an  injured  note  in  his  voice. 

"I  suppose  not,"  she  answered  with  the  politest  show  of  regret. 

"You've  definitely  decided  against  going  to  Arden?" 


AT  THE  RACES  43 

She  detected  chagrin — she  smiled. 

"Well,  I  couldn't  possibly  decide  without  consulting  mamma, 
you  know  .  .  ." 

"Oh — mamma!"  he  groaned. 

A  cool,  quiet  voice  intervened  behind  them. 

"What  are  you  two  being  so  earnest  about?"  It  was  Faith 
Daventry. 

"Oh!  the  racing — the  heat — the  pretty  people — never  you 
mind!"  Rosemary  answered  flippantly.  "Come  and  sit  down,  both 
of  you.  Make  yourselves  at  home." 

"Well,  there's  a  storm  coming,"  said  Faith;  "we'd  better " 

"They  don't  seem  to  care  about  strawberries-and-cream,  do 
they?"  remarked  Eric.  "Shall  we  eat  theirs  for  them,  Faith?" 

"Come  on,  Rosemary — eat!"  urged  Adrian.  "Let  'em  order 
their  own." 

The  four  spent  a  merry  half-hour,  dallying  with  their  straw- 
berries and  with  each  other.  And  Eric,  who  was  an  adept  at  such 
performances,  showed  them  a  new  trick  whereby  you  dip  a  straw- 
berry in  cream  and  drop  it  neatly  into  your  mouth  minus  the  stalk. 
Ros&mary  declared  it  was  rude  and  Faith  told  him  to  behave 
himself. 

When  they  rose  to  go  Faith  said : 

"By  the  way,  Rosemary,  are  you  and  Lady  Cranford  coming 
down  to  Arden  for  August  Bank  Holiday,  or  are  you  not  ?  Mother 
— at  least  mother's  me — simply  demands  an  answer.  Eric's  coming, 
Mr.  Knoyle's  coming,  we're  all  coming,  so  chuck  windy  old 
Cowes  and  come  too." 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  broken  by  Eric. 

"Give  the  poor  gal  a  minute  to  think.  She  wants  to  say  no 
and  doesn't  know  how  to!" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Eric!" 

Rosemary's  eyes  challenged  Adrian's,  and  he  read  mockery  in 
them. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Faith."  The  words  almost  slid  from 
her  lips.  "I  think  .  .  .  yes." 

Adrian  desired  to  embrace  her. 


44  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

At  this  moment  the  thunderstorm  broke.  Great  drops  of  rain 
fell  on  the  roof  of  the  marquee,  making  a  queer  drumming  sound, 
while  sheets  of  blue  and  green  lightning  were  succeeded  by  peal 
after  peal  of  thunder  that  sounded  like  batteries  of  guns. 

The  storm  had  an  oddly  depressing  effect  upon  their  spirits, 
and  when,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  they  emerged  from  the  tent, 
it  was  a  somewhat  subdued  party  that  travelled  back  to  London. 


CHAPTER  IV 
Alarms  and  Excursions 

§  i 

THE  London  summer  as  recognised  by  civilised  society  had  drawn 
to  a  glorious  close  when  Friday,  July  3ist,  found  Adrian  packing 
a  suit-case  and  kit-bag  for  his  visit  to  Arden.  As  usual  he  found 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  compressing  within  the  prescribed  space 
articles  of  equipment  and  attire  appropriate  to  every  conceivable 
situation.  He  was  very  particular.  He  was  particular  about  taking 
two,  if  not  three,  of  everything.  In  fact  he  could  hardly  imagine 
a  disaster  more  appalling  than  to  arrive  at  a  house-party  minus 
any  essential,  be  it  a  lawn  tennis-racquet  or  a  pearl  stud. 

Lady  Knoyle  attempted  to  assist  in  these  proceedings,  knocking 
tentatively  at  his  bedroom  door  and  calling  out  in  gentle  tones: 

"Can  I  help,  darling?  Is  there  anything  I  can  do?  Don't 
forget  your  white  silk  handkerchiefs  again !" 

To  which  her  son  would  reply : 

"No,  mother,  it's  all  right.    Please  don't  bother." 

Once  Lady  Knoyle  did  penetrate  into  the  sacred  chamber  with 
a  bottle  of  eau-de-Cologne.  "I  just  brought  this,  darling."  She 
had  a  passion  for  making  her  son  small  gifts  whenever  he  went 
away  and  for  however  short  a  time. 

Every  few  minutes  Sir  Charles'  voice  would  be  heard  from  below : 

"Now  then,  my  boy,  hurry  up !  Your  cab's  at  the  door.  What 
the  devil  are  you  doing?" 

Sir  Charles  always  prowled  in  the  hall  when  his  son  went 
away.  He  enjoyed  girding  at  the  servants,  keeping  his  boy  "up 
to  the  mark"  and  "waking  things  up"  generally.  He  was  a  white- 
haired,  spirited  old  gentleman. 

"Silly  young  ass!  What  do  you  want  to  run  it  so  fine  for? 

45  % 


46  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

Come !  Bustle  along !  Put  the  suit-case  in  first,  Albert !  I  suppose 
you've  left  half-a-dozen  things  behind  as  it  is." 

"Oh !  it's  all  right,  father.  There's  plenty  of  time."  His  fond 
parents  never  could  remember  that  he  wasn't  a  boy  going  back 
to  school. 

"Darling!"  crooned  Lady  Knoyle,  embracing  him.  "Take  care 
of  yourself  and  have  a  good  time!  You'll  be  passing  through 
again  on  Tuesday,  won't  you?  Give  my  love  to  dear  Mary  Arden, 
and  Edward  too,  if  he  remembers  me;  and  many  messages  to 
Helena  Cranford!" 

At  last  he  was  off,  thrilled  at  the  prospect  that  lay  before  him. 
Nobody  shared  his  secret.  Rosemary  really  was  going  to  be  there 
— was  already  there,  in  fact,  for  she  and  Lady  Cranford  had  come 
on  from  another  visit — and  he  ha*  not  seen  her  for  a  month. 
What  an  endless  month,  and  how  bereft  of — vitality!  They  had 
only  exchanged  letters — long  ones.  In  the  interval  he  had  got 
to  know  Faith  Daventry,  Rosemary's  particular  friend,  so  well 
that  she  had  become  a  common  possession  almost  between  himself 
and  Eric.  Everything,  in  fact,  promised  a  glorious  week-end. 

At  the  Waterloo  bookstall  (by  assignation)  he  met  Sinclair, 
who  had  already  secured  opposite  corners  in  a  crowded  carriage, 
and  who  in  a  straw  hat  and  flannel  suit  looked  almost  indecently 
cool,  exhaling  a  scent  of  eau-de-Cologne  and  fresh  soap. 

"I  got  her,"  said  the  latter. 

Adrian,  whose  mind  at  the  moment  was  adjusted  to  one  in- 
dividual only,  thought  he  meant  Rosemary. 

"What!    You've  seen  her ?" 

"Yes.    Last  night.    The  one  with  the  long  legs." 

When  he  realised  that  these  cryptic  remarks  referred  merely  to 
one  of  his  friend's  "amusements,"  he  felt — well,  injured. 

"In  God's  name,  who ?" 

"Why,  Joyce!    Little  Joyce." 

"Not  that  awful  wench  in  the  second  row?  .  .  .  Great  heavens!" 

"Of  course.  Haven't  I  waited  long  enough?  I  took  her  to 
the  Savoy  Grill " 

"Oh,  dry  up!     I  know  all  about  it.    Who's  going  to  be  at  this 


ALARMS  AND  EXCURSIONS  47 

party  besides  Rosemary  and  Mamma  Cranford?  Have  you  seen 
anybody?" 

Eric  laughed. 

"Only  a  certain  Orde  whom  I  know  slightly.  That's  the  chap. 
He's  going." 

A  tall,  dark,  finely-built  man  in  a  grey  suit  and  straw  hat 
passed  them  and  nodded.  He  was  followed  by  a  servant  carrying 
various  articles  of  luggage.  Adrian  recognised  him  as  the  individual 
to  whom  he  had  seen  Eric  talking  at  the  Rodriguez'  ball  and 
whose  face  had  attracted  him.  It  was  a  good-looking  and  a 
strong  face. 

They  took  their  seats.  Whistles  blew.  Guards  and  porters 
began  to  shout.  Ladies  embraced.  The  engine  gave  a  shrill  scream. 
Newsboys  yelled  their  loudest.  At  this  exciting  moment — in- 
separable even  from  the  briefest  journey — a  whirlwind  apparition 
projected  itself  into  their  vision,  to  the  amazement  of  the  onlookers 
and  the  amusement  of  the  friends. 

The  apparition  consisted  of  Gina  Maryon  in  a  red,  green,  and 
black  striped  garment  that  scintillated  like  an  insect's  body,  without 
a  hat  but  with  green  gauze  streaming  from  her  brilliant  hair— a 
jewel-box  in  one  hand,  a  Pekinese  dog  on  the  other  arm — Gina 
Maryon,  laughing,  panting  and  crying  out,  "Come  on !  Come  on ! 
Run,  run!  We'll  miss  it!  Here  you  are — no  you  aren't,  it's  full 
up.  Hold  the  dog ;  give  me  the  coat.  Run  for  your  life,  Mathilde ! 
Oh,  Harry,  I  shall  die !"  A  French  maid  in  a  hobble-skirt  cannot 
as  a  rule  run — even  for  her  life.  Mathilde  was  no  exception. 
Harry,  the  pale-faced  young  man,  pursued  resentfully.  The  rear 
was  brought  up  by  three  porters  loaded  with  queer  little  cases, 
hampers,  satchels,  baskets,  cardboard-boxes — running  their  very 
hardest.  Eric  whistled.  Adrian  muttered  "She  would!"  and 
thought  to  himself,  "Can  she  be  bound  for  Arden?" 

As  the  train  moved  off,  it  seemed  that  the  whole  party,  porters 
and  all,  precipitated  itself  into  a  carriage. 


48  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

§2 

Adrian  rarely  read  a  newspaper.  But  in  the  train  there  is  seldom 
anything  better  to  do.  And  before  they  reached  Woking,  this 
sunny  3 1st  of  July,  he  had  begun  to  realise  that  something  (rather 
odd)  was  happening  in  the  world. 

He  drew  his  friend's  attention  to  the  matter. 

Something  about  a  war.  .  .  . 

In  fact,  the  Daily  Mail  was  full  of  the  new  idea.  "Oh!  Ire- 
land, I  suppose,"  growled  Sinclair.  Sinclair  was  sick  of  Ireland. 
Old  men  in  arm-chairs  had  been  mumbling  of  nothing  else  for 
months.  Moreover,  he  was  tired,  and  in  the  suffocating  heat  simply 
wanted  to  go  to  sleep. 

"No,  not  Ireland.    WAR — a  real  one." 

"Yes,  the  blasted  civil  war  we've  been  hearing  about  for  years. 
I  wish  all  politicians  would  go  and  drown  themselves.  They're 
more  unreliable  than  women,  and  not  half  so  amusing." 

"Wake  up,  you  fool.  I  tell  you  it's  not  Ireland.  It's  a  real  war. 
My  dear  chap,  do  you  never  take  any  interest  in  anything  except 
chorus-girls  and  cocktails?  Oh!  sit  up,  do,  and  show  a  bit  of 
intelligence  about  the  thing!  We're  going  to  fight  the  Germans, 
I  tell  you." 

But  his  friend  had  already  fallen  asleep. 

Adrian  for  his  part  was  now  very  much  awake.  Why,  the 
newspapers  were  full  of  it!  The  Times  had  staring  headlines 
on  its  main  news  page: 

"FATE  OF  EUROPE  IN  THE  BALANCE. 
"CAN  WAR  BE  AVERTED?" 

And  The  Times  at  least  could  not  lie! 

But  why  did  the  newspapers  spring  this  sort  of  thing  upon  one? 
How  was  it  he  hadn't  heard  of  this  business  before?  Then  he 
remembered  Sir  Charles  reading  an  extract  from  some  leading 
article  two  or  three  weeks  earlier — something  about  the  conse- 
quences of  an  Austrian  Archduke  being  murdered  (though  how  in 


ALARMS  AND  EXCURSIONS  49 

heaven's  name  they  could  affect  his  papa  passed  the  young  man's 
comprehension)  ;  something,  too,  about  the  Balkans  being  in  a 
ferment,  and  the  possibility  of  another  Balkan  war.  But  what 
did  that  signify?  It  had  happened  at  breakfast,  and  Sir  Charles 
was  always  reading  extracts  from  the  newspaper  at  breakfast, 
uttering  false  predictions  on  the  strength  of  them — had  done  so 
for  years.  And  it  wasn't  the  extract  that  had  impressed  itself 
upon  Adrian's  memory,  but  the  fact  that  he  had  been  down  to 
breakfast  on  the  occasion.  What  the  "old  man"  might  be  driving 
at  he  didn't  know  or  care  at  the  time— probably  some  hare  that 
had  been  started  at  the  Travellers'. 

A  much  more  serious  war  had  intervened  when  the  "old  man" 
found  his  coffee  cold.  "Ring  the  bell,  Adrian!  Shout  for  that 
damned  Albert !"  The  Balkans  were  soon  forgotten. 

But  now  (rather  impudently)  the  Balkans  had  reappeared.  They 
even  drove  a  face,  a  voice,  a  dream,  a  personality  from  his  mind 
for  nearly  five  minutes! 

And  Russia,  Germany,  Austria,  France — England  were  involved. 
Well,  it  was  a  change  from  Ireland,  anyway.  But  what  was  at 
the  .bottom  of  it?  That  was  the  sort  of  safe  general  question 
you  asked  your  neighbour.  There  must  be  something  afoot — in 
spite  of  the  Daily  Mail.  He  lit  a  cigarette.  That  was  a  non- 
committal act.  He  read  a  few  lines  of  the  leader  .  .  .  looked 
up  and  thought  of  waking  his  friend,  but  the  friend  was  sleeping 
off  a  dissipated  summer — and  Adrian  knew  better. 

Two  men  in  the  carriage  began  to  talk,  bearded,  prosperous- 
looking  men  who  would  no  doubt  be  well  up  in  this  thing.  "City 
men,"  to  use  the  vulgar  phrase.  .  .  .  Anyway,  it  was  less  trouble 
to  listen  to  their  conversation  than  to  try  and  puzzle  out  the  con- 
tents of  a  leading  article. 

"I'm  hanged  if  I  can  see  how  we're  to  keep  out  of  it,"  one 
was  saying.  "Germany  seems  bent  on  war.  Austria's  the  tool 
of  Germany.  I  fail  to  see  how  a  rupture  with  Russia  can  be 
prevented  if  this  mobilisation  report  is  true.  Then  France  is  bound 
to  come  in.  And  if  France  comes  in,  even  Asquith  can't  keep 
us  out  of  it  for  long.  To  put  it  on  the  lowest  ground,  we  can't 


50  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

afford  to  let  France  or  Belgium  be  smashed.    If  either  is  involved 
we  ought  to  declare  war  at  once." 

"There's  just  about  one  chance  in  a  thousand,"  agreed  the  other. 
"The  Conference  proposal  seems  to  have  failed.  Grey  may  put 
somebody  up  in  the  House  on  Monday  to  rattle  the  sabre  and 
trumpet  the  Big  Fleet.  It  worked  at  Agadir.  There's  a  chance 
in  a  thousand" — he  leaned  forward,  speaking  slowly  and  beating 
out  his  words  on  the  other  man's  knee — "there's  a  chance  in  a 
thousand  that  it  might  work  this  time.  But  only  about  one  chance. 
That's  my  opinion.  Personally,  I  think  the  fat's  in  the  fire.  It 
seems  to  me  too  late  for  any  of  them  to  draw  back  now." 


The  express  drew  up  at  Basingstoke.  They  changed  and,  feeling 
unequal  to  Miss  Maryon  (who  took  some  time  to  extricate  herself, 
dog,  and  packages),  hastened  to  seat  themselves  in  the  forefront 
of  a  local  train  that  stood  waiting  at  the  opposite  platform. 

Eric  Sinclair  glanced  at  the  Tatler  and  Sketch,  mumbled  some- 
thing, and  fell  asleep  again.  Adrian,  impressed  by  the  conversation 
he  had  just  heard,  felt  no  longer  in  a  mood  to  talk.  His  thoughts 
of  Rosemary  and  of  all  that  this  week-end  implied  to  them  both 
were  momentarily  obscured  by  the  apparition  of  an  Event. 

As  the  train  rattled  along  the  branch  line  he  gazed  out  of 
window  at  the  pleasantly  undulating  Hampshire  countryside.  He 
saw  a  land  of  tossing  woodland  and  hedgerow,  of  long  winding 
valleys,  leaf-tufted  copses  and  nestling  villages,  of  wide  distances 
fading  towards  hill  and  sea.  The  harvest  was  being  carried,  the 
deep  gold  of  the  fields  was  tinted  by  the  deeper  gold  of  the  setting 
sun.  .  .  .  Above  the  jolt  and  rattle  of  the  train  there  rose  a  shrill 
laugh  and  a  snatch  of  some  song.  It  was  Gina  Maryon's  laugh 
and  Gina  Maryon's  song.  At  that  moment  he  hated  the  girl.  She 
embodied  his  very  enemy  at  that  moment.  He  hated  her  aggressive 
modernity,  her  pose,  her  complete  incapacity  for  repose,  her  violet 
eyes,  her  everlasting  fluttering  about  the  fringes  of  life,  her  sex- 


ALARMS  AND  EXCURSIONS  51 

dallying,  her  "poetry,"  her  "art,"  her  "originality,"  her — "wonder- 
fulness." 

That  laugh — how  it  jarred  against  the  reflective  landscape,  these 
immemorial,  elemental  things — the  garnering  of  fruit  of  sun  and 
earth ! 

Abruptly,  inconsequently  he  thought  of  his  home.  He  thought 
of  his  home  that  lay  fifty  miles  away  at  the  foot  of  the  Plain, 
with  a  sharp,  inexplicable  longing,  a  curious,  half-melancholy  yearn- 
ing which  used  often  to  take  him  unawares,  but  which  he  had  not 
known  for  months  now  or  even  years.  Perhaps  he,  too,  was  caught 
up  already  in  this  high-power  dynamo  of  existence!  .  .  .  Stane 
Deverill!  It  was  his  birth-place.  There  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Three  Hills  he  had  spent  his  earliest  and  many  of  his  happiest 
days.  He  thought  of  it  as  he  remembered  it — its  walled  gardens, 
its  courtyard  wherein  sunlight  lingered  upon  mossy  damp,  through 
hours  of  which  an  archaic  sun-dial  and  chiming  stable  clock  alone 
took  count ;  of  the  westward-looking  terrace  where  reigned  a  change- 
less order  of  flowers  and  scents  and  birds;  of  the  swelling  downs 
behind  where  lay  in  barrows-deep  mysteries  of  his  boyhood's  recol- 
lection. 

Strangers  dwelt  there  now.  .  .  . 

The  train  pulled  up  with  a  jerk,  and  the  mood  was  gone — 
a  mere  shade  across  his  reflections.  Eric  awoke  and  swore.  They 
tumbled  out  upon  the  wayside  platform.  They  fell  into  the  arms 
of  Miss  Maryon. 

"You  unsociable  couple !  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  travelled 
all  the  way  from  London  in  the  same  train  ?"  She  threw  a  brilliant 
glance  at  each  of  them.  "Make  good  your  lack  of  manners  by 
holding  the  dog  and  the  book.  I'll  stand  over  Mathilde  and  the 
baggage." 

Upton  joined  them  and  made  a  sort  of  bow.  He  and  Eric 
were  introduced.  A  footman  appeared  and  led  the  way  to  a  car 
which  stood  purring  in  the  station-yard.  Nobody  had  noticed 
the  tall,  good-looking  individual  who  now  appeared  smoking  a 
cigarette,  attended  by  his  servant  bearing  the  suit-case  and  the 
tennis-racquet.  He  flourished  his  hat  and  inquired  whether  they 


52  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

were  going  by  chance  to  Arden  Park.  Eric  introduced  him  as 
"Captain  Orde." 

In  the  car  Gina  insisted  on  having  a  young  man  on  each  side 
of  her;  and  this  privilege  fell  to  Adrian  and  Upton.  Every  time 
they  turned  a  corner  she  leant  against  one  or  the  other,  and  once, 
when  the  car  pulled  up  short  behind  a  harvest  wagon,  her  hand 
pressed  Adrian's — he  thought — unnecessarily. 

She  talked.  She  talked  every  moment  of  the  way  to  Arden, 
interrupted  only  by  polite  monosyllables  and  by  Upton's  occasional 
repartee. 

"What  sort  of  welcome  shall  I  get?  You  see,  I've  not  been 
invited;  I've  invited  myself.  And,  what's  more,  I've  invited  this 
young  man,  who  doesn't  know  a  soul.  But  he  always  travels  with 
me — don't  you,  Harry? — he  carries  the  dog  and  the  book.  (And 
mind  you  don't  let  that  animal  commit  suicide  out  of  window, 
Harry!)  .  .  .  Well,  the  fact  is  we  were  going  to  the  Gerard 
Romanes  for  the  week-end,  Harry  and  me  (sic) — it  was  all 
arranged  weeks  ago — and  then  that  preposterous  old  woman,  Mrs. 
Christopher  Romane,  Venetia's  mother-in-law,  thought  fit  to  expire 
suddenly,  thereby  annihilating  what  would  have  been  an  amusing 
party.  Not  that  one  can  regret  it  in  the  present  charming  com- 
pany, of  course!  But  it  was  tactless,  to  say  the  least.  Well, 
I  immediately  wired  to  Edward  Arden — who,  by  the  way,  is  the 
only  hospitable  cousin  I've  ever  had — and  announced  my  arrival 
(Harry  in  hand)  for  this  very  hour." 

The  implication  of  these  remarks,  addressed  mainly  to  Adrian, 
was  that  Miss  Maryon  was  patronising  a  society  to  which  she 
did  not  profess  to  belong.  "Harry"  was  presumably  included 
on  her  side  of  the  implication.  The  stranger,  Orde,  said  nothing, 
but  his  dark  face,  with  its  crisp  little  moustache — he  looked  about 
thirty-five — wore  a  faintly  sardonic  smile. 

§  4 

They  flashed  through  iron  gates,  and  some  distance  further  on 
came  in  sight  of  a  long,  low,  grey  stone  house  representing  an 


ALARMS  AND  EXCURSIONS  53 

eighteenth-century  style  of  architecture  very  frequently  met  with 
in  this  part  of  England.  It  stood  on  a  slight  rise  amid  flower 
gardens  and  shrubberies,  on  the  reverse  side  of  which  shady  lawns 
sloped  down  to  a  large  lake,  wooded  to  the  edge,  which  wound 
away,  narrowing  into  the  distances  of  the  Park.  As  they  drew 
near  and  passed  through  secondary  iron  gates  into  the  drive  leading 
up  to  the  house  they  perceived  that  a  cricket  match  was  in  progress. 
White  figures  could  be  seen  against  the  green  grass,  and  beneath 
a  group  of  shady  chestnuts  was  gathered  a  group  of  people  watching 
the  game.  Eric  exclaimed  "Help!  We're  not  expected  to  play 
cricket,  are  we?"  Adrian's  eyes  were  only  concerned  to  single 
out  one  figure  in  the  group;  and  though  they  failed  in  this,  he 
became  keenly  aware  of  the  serene  and  spacious  beauty  of  the 
scene,  of  the  soft  greens  and  greying  brackens  in  the  distance, 
of  the  placid  lake  and  a  few  browsing  deer,  and  of  the  light  of 
the  westering  sun  that  gilded  the  tops  of  elms,  beeches,  and  oaks. 

Immediately  the  car  stopped  he  heard  shrill  cries  of  water- 
fowl coming  from  the  direction  of  the  lake. 

The  butler  proposed  to  lead  them  forthwith  to  the  cricket- 
field  where,  he  said,  the  company  was  assembled  at  tea.  Lord 
Arden,  in  grey  flannels  and  a  panama  hat,  met  them  half-way 
across  the  lawn.  He  was  a  short,  square,  middle-aged  man  with 
a  heavy  fair  moustache,  merry  blue  eyes — his  daughter's — and  a 
countenance  of  mulberry  hue.  His  manner  was  cordial  to  the 
point  of  heartiness. 

"Delighted  to  see  you  all !"  He  led  them  across  to  the  tea-table. 
"And  have  any  of  you  brought  an  evening  paper?  We  were  almost 
afraid  these  tremendous  events  might  have  upset  the  trains." 

Adrian  wondered  what  he  meant. 

"It's  an  age  since  we  met,  Edward,"  cried  Gina,  taking  his  arm. 
"You're  grey-haired  and  respectable,  otherwise  not  changed." 

At  this  moment  Adrian  espied  Rosemary,  who  was  sitting  at 
an  angle  to  their  approach.  There  was  a  genral  uprising.  She 
gave  him  the  faintest  of  smiles,  the  carmine  warmed  in  her  cheeks — 
it  was  enough. 

Gina  Maryon  embraced  Lady  Arden,  exclaiming,  "My  dear!" 


54  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

in  a  peculiar,  emphatic  tone  of  voice  as  if  she  was  announcing 
some  mysterious  but  conclusive  fact.  Faith  she  addressed  as 
"darling"  in  the  manner  of  an  actress  uttering  the  last  word 
of  a  melodrama.  Lady  Arden  with  an  indefinite  gesture  said, 
"You  all  know  each  other,  don't  you?"  But  they  didn't,  so  Faith 
repeated  their  names. 

"Sir  Walter  and  Lady  Freeman — Miss  Ingleby — Mr.  Heath- 
cote." 

Adrian  heard  them  vaguely  and  without  interest.  For  him  there 
was  only  one  person  present. 

Lady  Cranford  greeted  him  with  studied  affability  and  asked 
after  his  mother  as  though  bestowing  a  minor  honour  upon  the 
family.  She  was  a  tall,  handsome  woman  with  white  hair  and 
very  brilliant  dark  eyes,  the  combination  making  her  conspicuous 
in  any  gathering.  Her  reputation  as  confidante  of  various  powerful 
constellations  lent  her  personality  a  distinction  which  her  unbending 
manner  had  made  up  its  mind  to  support.  Her  period  was  Vic- 
torian, but  now  and  then  she  made  the  mistake  of  being  up-to-date. 

Mr.  Ralph  Heathcote  had  bows  and  smiles  for  everybody.  He 
was  dressy  and  elderly,  with  a  beautifully-brushed  moustache.  The 
paragraphists  called  him  a  "society  man" — a  description  which  he 
did  not  in  the  least  resent  when  his  friends  said  it  meant  oiling 
the  wheels  of  tea-parties.  However,  he  knew — more  or  less — 
everybody  worth  knowing;  ladies  (above  the  age  of  forty-five) 
were  very  partial  to  his  company.  For  the  rest  he  was  an  authority 
on  Crown  Derby,  never  revoked  at  bridge,  and  knew  Debrett 
better  than  his  own  soul. 

Miss  Ingleby,  a  robin-like  person,  hovered  in  the  background, 
coping  with  the  Arden  children,  who  shrieked  with  laughter  and 
wept  bitterly  with  versatility. 

And  what  were  the  Freemans  doing  there?  They  seemed  a 
trifle  incongruous.  But  no,  Sir  Walter  was  a  rising  Unionist, 
bound  to  rise,  people  said,  because  you  couldn't  sit  on  him;  and 
Arden  dabbled  in  politics.  Sir  Walter  was  a  successful  business 
man  from  the  Midlands,  and  he  was  large  and  corpulent,  with 
big,  strong  features  and  a  bald  head.  Financially  he  was  useful 


ALARMS  AND  EXCURSIONS  55 

to  the  leaders  of  his  party,  but  they  liked  to  feel  he  was  some 
distance  behind  them.  And  Lady  Freeman?  She  was  the  kind 
of  woman  every  self-made  man  takes  to  his  bosom.  Adrian  thought 
her  vulgarly  handsome  with  her  bold,  straight  features,  her  large 
pearl  ear-rings,  and  her  down-to-date  clothes,  which  might  have 
come  from  Paris  or  New  York,  but  were  more  appropriate  to  either 
than  to  Arden  Park.  Where  Sir  Walter  went  Lady  Freeman 
went  as  a  matter  of  course.  As  a  joke  she  was  so  carefully  cul- 
tivated that  she  never  knew  it. 

Arden  plunged  hot-headedly  with  Orde  and  Sir  Walter  into 
the  question  of  war — to  be  or  not  to  be.  The  former  was  evidently 
an  old  friend.  The  latter  had  an  echo  of  the  House  of  Commons 
in  his  voice  and  the  same  institution  stamped  alike  on  his  manner 
and  his  clothes.  The  ladies  sat  round  in  a  suitably  awed  suspense, 
except  Lady  Cranford,  who  occasionally  interjected  remarks  in 
the  form  of  questions. 

Meanwhile  the  cricket  match  went  on  merrily,  and  the  strong 
man  with  the  one  pad — the  village  grocer,  Miss  Daventry  informed 
the  company — was  bowled  out  by  the  policeman  from  the  next 
village  in  blue  serge  trousers  and  white  boots.  The  "y°ung  people" 
(as  Mr.  Heathcote  liked  to  call  them),  sitting  in  a  small  circle 
apart,  took  no  interest  in  the  war  talk,  having  heard  the  same 
sort  of  thing  from  their  elders  times  out  of  number  before — and 
it  never  came  to  anything.  Ireland,  for  instance.  .  .  . 

"Did  any  of  you  creatures  go  to  the  Warringtons'  ?"  demanded 
Faith. 

"No,"  replied  Rosemary,  "we  were  away.  Mamma  thought 
sea-air  would  improve  her  coiffure/' 

"I  went,"  said  Eric.     "It  was  brilliant,  but  dreadfully  dull." 

"Look  at  Heathcote!"  whispered  Rosemary  maliciously.  "He's 
been  telling  Miss  What's-her-name  that  mamma  was  a  friend  of 
the  late  king  and  a  daughter  of  dear  old  Lord  Laverstock — who 
died.  He  loves  mamma — especially  when  she  treats  him  like  a 
footman.  Why  the  devil  doesn't  he  call  her  'm'lady'  and  have 
done  with  it!" 

They  all  laughed. 


56  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"Poor  old  boy,"  said  Faith.  "It  doesn't  matter.  They  get  like 
that  sometimes.  .  .  ." 

"  Toor !'— not  a  bit.  He  likes  it,"  her  friend  retorted.  "When- 
ever she's  particularly  rude  to  him  he  turns  round  and  tells  some- 
body what  a  regular  grande  dame  she  is." 

"Old-fashioned  manners!"  murmured  Eric. 

They  laughed  again,  except  Adrian,  who  was  lost  in  the  complete 
suitability  of  his  friend's  saffron-coloured  frock  and  coarse-straw 
hat  of  cunning  shape.  He  was  watching  the  constantly  changing 
expressions  on  her  face  while  she  talked — by  turns  nai've  and 
childish,  sparkling  and  insouciante,  puzzling,  with  a  kitten's  playful 
uncertainty.  Once  or  twice,  glancing  up,  he  found  Faith's  eyes 
bent  upon  him;  she  had  so  looked  at  him  before  in  the  course  of 
their  acquaintance,  always  averting  her  gaze  without  self -conscious- 
ness and  without  haste. 

His  serious  mood  was  quite  a  thing  of  the  past.  It  had  been 
shattered  by  Gina  in  the  motor.  It  had  vanished  completely  the 
moment  he  caught  sight  of  Rosemary. 

Eric  was  doing  something  elaborate — nobody  quite  knew  what — 
with  Faith's  necklace  of  green  jade  which  she  had  been  induced 
to  part  with.  Harold  Upton,  a  little  aloof,  was  awaiting  his 
opportunity  to  edge  across  and  talk  to  Gina  about  Life. 

It  was  a  pleasant  hour.  A  cock-pheasant  crowed  from  sur- 
rounding woods ;  they  could  hear  the  shrill  whistle  of  a  gamekeeper 
as  he  called  up  his  young  birds  for  the  evening  feed;  they  could 
hear  a  man's  voice  calling  cows. 

Play  ended.  The  watch  was  won  and  lost.  Stumps  were  drawn. 
The  players  walked  in  amid  hand-clapping. 

Lady  Arden,  breaking  in  upon  the  political  discussion,  said, 
"Well,  I  suppose  it's  time  to  dress." 

Lady  Cranford  said,  "What  a  divine  evening!" 

Miss  Ingleby  said,  "Yes,  it's  dreadful  to  think  they'll  soon  be 
shortening,  though." 

Gina  Maryon  said,  "Everything  looks  like  Wilson  Steer." 

But  already  the  shadows  were  closing  round. 


CHAPTER  V 
The  House  of  Arden 


"PoST-impressionism,"  remarked  Gina  Maryon  at  dinner,  "is  the 
truest  form  of  art  because  it  depicts  you  or  me  at  the  moment 
of  tensest  expression — at  a  crisis.  I  mean  at  the  moment  when 
'all  is  discovered/  or  war  is  declared,  or  something's  gone  wrong 
in  the  kitchen.  ...  It  brings  into  a  person's  face  a  person's  soul. 
What  do  you  think,  Edward?" 

"My  dear  cousin" — Lord  Arden  looked  round  apprehensively, 
trusting  that  the  servants  were  out  of  the  room — "your  art,  like 
your  conversation,  is  always  beyond  me.  You  not  only  speak  of 
things  I  don't  understand,  but,  what  is  more  ill-bred,  you  speak 
of  them  in  parables.  What  do  I  think  about  post-impressionism? 
What  do  I  know  of  it?  ...  Only  that  le  bon  Dieu  has  given 
me  a  countenance  of  normal  dimensions,  and  that  Fm  content 
with  it,  and  that  you  want  to  re-fashion  it  as  a  cube  or  a  lozenge 
or  a  dot  or  a  dash — or  something  it  isn't.  You  want  to  depict  it 
at  a  'moment  of  crisis' — take  me  at  a  disadvantage — seize  upon 
my  suffering  physiognomy  when  Mary  and  I  are  going  over  the 
house-books,  for  instance,  and  make  it  a  thing  out  of  the  Chamber 
of  Horrors.  Can  you  expect  an  elderly  nobleman  to  submit  to  a 
modern  idiosyncrasy  ?" 

"But  people  are  so  much  more  interesting  in  a  crisis,  my  dear 
Eddie!" 

"That's  an  idea  for  an  artist,  eh?"  put  in  Upton,  who  was 
sitting  next  to  Gina.  "The  man  who  specialised  in  painting  every 
circumstance  and  kind  and  form  of  domestic  crisis " 

"From  'The  Fall' "  interruptd  Gina. 

"To  'The  Confession,' "  continued  Upton,  "would  make  his 

57 


58  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

fortune.  The  middle-classes  love  'scenes.'  There  is  nothing  the 
British  middle-class  enjoys  so  much  as  seeing  its  loftiest  passions 
depicted  in  bad  paint." 

Arden  leant  back  and  laughed  with  his  head  on  one  side. 

The  four  young  people  in  the  centre  were  keeping  up  a  lively 
flow  across  the  table,  mainly  around  the  substantial  figures  of  Mrs. 
Rivington  and  the  Misses  Kenelm. 

"They  always  remind  me  of  a  hen  and  two  chickens,"  said 
Rosemary. 

"Why  not  ducklings?"  suggested  Eric. 

"They're  very  nice  in  their  way,  though,"  protested  Faith,  "only 
a  bit  on  the  heavy  side,  like  many  'nice'  people." 

"Say  'good-natured,'  Faith,"  contributed  Adrian. 

"Or  'worthy/  "  from  Eric. 

"It's  the  prerogative  of  all  'nice  people'  to  be  one  or  the  other 
you  know,"  said  Adrian.  "It  lets  'em  down  lightly — and  doesn't 
mean  anything." 

"Don't  be  clever,  young  man!" 

"Not  clever,  only  young,"  corrected  Rosemary. 

Adrian  smiled. 

"Mrs.  Rivington  and  Co.  will  be  at  Sheringham  in  full  force," 
said  Faith.  "That  I  know  for  certain." 

"Oh,  joy!"  commented  Eric.  "I  hope  you'll  run  straight  into 
the  bosom  of  them.  When  do  you  go?" 

"We've  got  the  house  from  the  fifteenth.  Rosie,  when  are  you 
coming?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  drag  mamma  away  from  Aunt  Kitty's,  I 
suppose.  What  fun  it  will  be,  won't  it?  I  shan't  wear  clothes, 
only  bits  of  things.  I  hope  our  lodging  is  close  to  your  mansion." 

"Our  public-house  overlooks  the  golf-links.  Eric — Adrian — 
can't  you  join  the  merry  party?  We  can't  put  you  up  because 
there  won't  be  room — unless  you  sleep  with  the  children." 

"Mixed  bathing,  golf,  tennis,  and  Us,"  said  Rosemary.  "What 
more  do  you  want?" 

The  young  men  thrilled  at  the  prospect. 

"It  shall  be  managed,"  they  said  jointly, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  ARDEN  59 

"Even  if  we  have  to  sleep  with  Mrs.  R.,"  added  Eric. 

''Or  toss  for  beds  with  the  Miss " 

"Tush!"  said  Faith. 

It  was  an  animated  scene  in  the  Arden  dining-room,  with  its 
panelled  white  walls  and  shaded  electric  lights  gently  illuminating 
portraits  of  bygone  Daventrys  by  Lawrence,  Raeburn,  and  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds.  The  table,  lighted  by  candles  in  silver  candelabra, 
appeared  as  an  illuminated  ellipse  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  the 
rest  of  it  being  in  shadow.  The  menservants  flitted  silently  to 
and  fro  across  the  thick  carpet.  All  the  windows  were  open, 
and  the  scent  of  flowers,  of  dew,  of  the  country  sleeping  after 
a  day  of  great  heat  crept  into  the  room.  .  .  . 

Lady  Freeman  was  discussing  with  Mr.  Heathcote  the  subject 
of  a  Royal  marriage.  In  view  of  the  fact  that  the  eldest  scion 
of  the  blood  royal  had  barely  reached  the  age  of  twenty,  the 
matter  might  not  have  appeared  pressing — but  it  did  to  Lady 
Freeman.  And  they  discussed — with  an  avidity  which  Eric  at 
the  other  end  described  as  indecent — first  one  party,  then  another, 
first  this  Princess  of  the  Blood,  then  that.  They  damned  Italy 
on  religious  grounds ;  they  barely  skimmed  the  house  of  Karageorge- 
vitch  of  Serbia  (in  their  anxiety  to  please),  they  even  went  so 
far  as  to  discuss  the  chances  of  certain  humble  British  subjects. 
A  German  lady  they  did  not  want  (but  feared).  A  Scandinavian 
princess  was  in  the  running,  could  a  suitable  one  be  found.  Finally 
they  decided  (conditionally)  on  the  House  of  Romanoff. 

Hardly  anybody  noticed  Miss  Ingleby,  who  had  been  carrying 
on  a  mouse-like  conversation  with  Captain  Orde. 

"I  am  a  shamefully  idle  and  useless  person,"  she  was  saying 
fiercely.  "I  have  a  tiny  house  at  Windsor,  and  beyond  a  little 
local  organisation  work  for  the  Girls'  Friendly  I  do  nothing  that 
is  useful.  I  have,  of  course,  my  garden  and  my  sketching — but 
what  are  these?  What  can  a  woman  do — that  is,  of  use — now- 
adays? The  position  of  women  like  myself  in  England  is  de- 
plorable, Captain  Orde.  We  have  no  vocation.  We  are  useless." 

Orde  politely  murmured  a  flat  denial. 

"The  world  could  not  get  along  for  half-an-hour  without  you," 


60  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

he  contended.  "Men  are  really  very  helpless  creatures,  you  know, 
Miss  Ingleby — at  any  rate,  the  moment  they  become  helpless  women 
have  to  run  the  show,  soothe  the  fevered  brow,  and  make  things 
comfortable.  That's  the  one  thing  of  all  others  every  man  is  a 
hopeless  duffer  at — making  himself  comfortable." 

"But  how  often  do  women — in  our  class  of  life — get  this  oppor- 
tunity?" Miss  Ingleby  pursued.  "What  is  our  sphere — our  raison 
d'etre?"  She  responded  readily  to  Orde's  quiet  and  attentive  man- 
ner, though  here,  indeed,  he  was  somewhat  out  of  his  depth.  With 
Miss  Ingleby  it  was  a  sort  of  obsession  that  she  was  of  no  use 
to  anyone,  never  had  been,  and  never  would  be.  All  her  life — 
she  was  about  forty — she  had  never  done  a  single  thing — that 
mattered.  Yet  it  was  curious  that  if  any  one  of  her  innumerable 
friends — Lady  Arden,  for  instance — had  been  consulted,  it  would 
have  transpired  that  the  little  lady  spent  her  life  playing  nurse 
to  their  children,  playing  doctor  to  their  parrots  or  their  dogs, 
playing  mentor  to  their  cooks — that  in  the  houses  where  she  stayed 
she  could  never  stay  quite  long  enough. 

Still  she  persisted  in  her  mania — women  such  as  she  had  no 
vocation. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  table  Lady  Cranford  sat  in  full-dress 
debate  with  Sir  Walter  Freeman  on  the  Irish  question.  She  was 
a  woman  with  a  firm  grasp  of  politics  and  affairs;  and  she  had 
a  forceful  sympathy  and  attraction  for  intelligent  men.  Lady 
Arden,  as  it  were,  browsed  on  the  discussion,  interjecting  a  large 
phrase  or  two  here  and  there.  After  surveying  the  chances  of 
war  and  after  Lady  Cranford — who  had  once  stayed  at  Ischl — 
had  related  one  or  two  stock  stories  of  Francis  Ferdinand's  amour 
propre,  the  talk  had  drifted  back  to  the  subject  of  the  Buckingham 
Palace  Conference. 

"Ireland,"  Sir  Walter  laid  down,  "is  one  of  the  tragedies  of 
the  human  race.  Her  past  is  a  tragedy,  her  present  is  a  tragedy, 
her  future  can  be  but  the  culmination  of  a  tragedy.  Even  her 
leaders,  you  see,  her  potential  kings  and  presidents,  are  tragic 
figures,  makers  of  tragedy.  Parnell,  O'Donovan  Rossa,  Devoy! 
She  has  attained  the  anti-climax  of  a  nation  or  of  a  human  being — 


THE  HOUSE  OF  ARDEN  61 

she  has  no  future,  only  a  past.  I  say  'no  future.'  She  is  a  dwindling 
race,  a  played-out  race,  a  member  of  the  sisterhood  of  nations  who 
never  acquired  the  art  of  government,  and  has  even  lost  the  gift 
of  common-sense.  She  is  an  unbalanced  aristocrat  with  a  bee  in 
her  bonnet." 

"What  a  pessimist!"  sighed  Lady  Cranford.  "Possibly  I  know 
the  Irish  better  than  you  do,  Sir  Walter.  I  spent  much  of  my 
early  life  in  Ireland.  George  Wyndham's  Land  Act  gave  them 
hope.  Sir  Horace  Plunket's  co-operative  agricultural  scheme  has 
given  them  opportunity,  method.  Now  they  want  a  stimulus,  a 
raison  d'etre.  They  want  to  feel  that  the  future  of  their  own 
country  lies  in  their  own  hands — and  that  it's  a  future  of  their 
own  shaping.  They  want  to  feel  that  they  are  working  for  them- 
selves and  the  generations  of  Irishmen  to  come — not  for  English- 
men with  Irish  names  or  Irishmen  with  Scotch  names,  who  merely 
calculate  how  much  they  can  get  out  of  the  peasantry  and  how 
little  they  can  live  amongst  them.  You  say  they  haven't  a  future. 
I  say,  give  them  a  future." 

"Forgive  me,  Lady  Cranford — but  you're  confusing  the  local 
and  the  national  issue — the  Land  Question  and  the  National  Ques- 
tion  " 

§    2 

At  this  point  Lady  Arden  rose,  and  all  the  ladies  with  her. 
Mr.  Heathcote  insisted  on  running  to  the  telephone  to  try  and 
obtain  the  latest  London  news  from  his  club.  He  had  been  very 
tiresome  in  this  respect  all  the  evening,  repeatedly  fussing  off, 
saying  he  had  told  a  friend — who  was,  or  was  the  friend  of,  such 
and  such  an  important  person,  et  cetera  and  so  forth — that  he 
would  ring  up  for  news  at  such  and  such  a  time.  He  presently 
came  back  and  announced,  with  a  poor  attempt  at  nonchalance, 
that,  according  to  London,  war  had  already  been  declared  between 
Germany  and  Russia  and  that  a  French  ultimatum  was  only  a 
question  of  hours. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  sensation  produced.     All  drew 


62  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

their  chairs  together,  Arden,  very  flushed,  began  talking  rapidly. 
Freeman  poured  himself  out  another  glass  of  port  with  a  shaking 
hand.  Heathcote  himself  could  not  sit  still  for  excitement.  Upton's 
face  lost  some  of  its  pallid  cynicism.  Even  Adrian  and  Eric 
paused  in  a  conversation  of  their  own  and  looked  along  the  table. 
Only  Orde  continued  puffing  immovably  at  a  cigarette. 

"By  Jove,  you  know!"  exclaimed  Arden.  "I've  been  expecting 
this  for  years,  but  now  it's  come  one  can't  realise  it  ...  one 
can't  realise  it.  If  all  this  is  true  we're  bound  to  be  drawn  into 
the  damned  thing,  and  then — oh !  well,  one  can't  think  of  it.  ... 
,  Cyril — send  the  port  round.  Do  you  think  we're  prepared,  my  dear 
chap — or  what?" 

Orde  took  time  to  consider. 

"We-ell,"  he  said  very  deliberately,  "I  suppose  we  could  put 
across  half-a-dozen  divisions  pretty  quickly — within  a  fortnight, 
say.  They're  good  troops,  of  course,  but  whether  they  can  make 
much  difference  where  millions  are  concerned  I  shouldn't  like 
to  say.  Personally  I've  always  thought  that  with  our  little  army 
we  should  only  begin  to  make  ourselves  felt  on  land  when  the 
whole  thing  was  practically  over." 

"My  dear  Cyril,  I  entirely  agree  with  you.  That's  what  I've 
always  said.  I  always  said  Roberts  was  the  only  man  in  the 
country  who  knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  If  we'd  had  the 
sense  to  adopt  national  service,  as  we  ought  to  have  done  years  ago, 
we  should  now  be  able  to  throw  a  large  Territorial  force  across 
to  France  as  well  as  the  whole  of  the  regular  army,  and  hold 
the  fort  with  half-trained  troops.  Instead  we're — impotent.  What 
do  you  say,  Freeman?" 

"If  Heathcote's  news  is  true,  and  in  any  case  war  seems  prac- 
tically inevitable,  I  think  we  shall  have  to  rely  almost  entirely 
on  the  Navy  as  our  fighting  arm.  Of  course,  we  shall  be  dragged 
in  sooner  or  later  if  France  is,  but,  mark  my  words,  it  won't 
last  long.  Modern  war  will  be  terrible — too  terrible  to  endure. 
Don't  you  agree,  Orde?" 

"I  give  it  six  months." 

"And  who  do  you  think  will  win  ?" 


THE  HOUSE  OF  ARDEN  63 

"It'll  be  a  draw.    They'll  fight  themselves  to  a  standstill." 

Upton,  who  was  in  the  Home  Office,  observed  that  if  the 
situation  were  developed  as  far  as  announced,  he  was  surprised 
general  mobilisation  had  not  been  ordered  and  that  he  himself  had 
been  allowed  to  leave  London. 

"It  may  be  going  out  now." 

So  the  talk  went  on,  the  news  completely  preoccupying  the  minds 
of  the  older  men. 

Not  so  the  two  youngest  of  the  party,  who,  after  listening  for 
a  while  as  in  duty  bound  had  resumed  their  own  conversation. 
This  was  concerned  with  the  prospect  lately  dangled  before  them 
by  Faith.  How  could  it  be  realised?  Could  they  "cadge"  an 
invitation  to  stay  with  some  of  their  numerous  friends  who  repaired 
to  Sheringham  in  August  and  September?  The  name  of  the 
worthy,  good-natured  (and  useful)  Mrs.  Rivington  had  suggested 
itself.  She  gave  large  parties  every  year.  Of  course,  the  Misses 
Kenelm  would  be  a  trial,  but  one  had  to  put  up  with  something. 
The  conspirators  began  to  deliberate  upon  a  plan  for  bringing 
themselves  and  their  desire  before  the  good  lady's  notice. 

§  3 

The  gentlemen  sat  on  late.  Ten  o'clock  had  struck  when  they 
rose  and  went  out  into  the  hall  where,  rugs  having  been  removed, 
Gina  Maryon  and  Rosemary  were  practising  the  steps  of  the 
maxixe  to  the  strains  of  a  gramophone.  Miss  Ingleby,  Orde,  and 
Sir  Walter  and  Lady  Freeman  immediately  went  off  to  the  draw- 
ing-room to  play  bridge,  Lady  Arden  consented  to  play  the  piano, 
while  Lady  Cranford  and  Mr.  Heathcote  established  themselves 
on  a  sofa  and  gossiped.  Arden  led  Gina  off  to  another  sofa,  where, 
to  judge  by  frequent  exclamations  and  shouts  of  laughter,  they 
were  "telling  stories" — a  pastime  Arden  delighted  in.  The  in- 
defatigable creature,  however,  presently  relieved  Lady  Arden  at 
the  piano  and  treated  the  company  to  a  selection  of  her  favourite 
ditties,  including  "  5Arry  and  'Arriet,"  "She  hasn't  done  her  hair 
up  yet,"  and  "Who  were  you  with  last  night?"  Gina  prided 


64  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

herself  on  these  rare  specimens  and  rendered  them  with  an  accent 
not  unworthy  of  their  titles.  Adrian  turned  over  the  music;  a 
sheet  fluttered  to  the  floor.  Both  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  their 
fingers  meeting  and  touching — a  fraction  of  a  second  longer  than 
(to  him)  seemed  necessary. 

Lady  Cranford  enjoyed  this  form  of  entertainment  as  much 
as  anybody,  laughed  heartily,  and  broke  in  unsparingly  on  Mr. 
Heathcote's  discourse  upon  whether  the  first  husband  of  old  Lady  B. 
was  a  Jekyll  or  a  Hyde,  also  whether  the  noted  affairs  of  Lord 
and  Lady  K.  were  likely  to  come  into  court  at  last,  together  with 
a  further  true  history  of  the  alleged  disgraceful  connection  between 
young  Lord  Charlie  and  Mrs.  Fitz. 

Then  Gina  insisted  that  everybody  should  sing — everybody,  that 
is,  except  Lady  Cranford  (who  declared  her  singing  days  were 
over)  and  the  bridge  players.  Lady  Arden,  who  had  a  pleasant, 
untrained  voice,  sang  the  "Requiem,"  with  words  by  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  Eric  followed  with  "Snooky  Ookums."  Faith  gave 
"Songs  of  Araby,"  and  Mr.  Heathcote,  in  a  high,  thin  tenor 
"rendered"  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  to  the  accompaniment  of  sup- 
pressed laughter  and  loud  applause.  Then  it  was  Rosemary's 
turn.  Both  she  and  Adrian  declared  that  they  had  never  sung 
a  line  or  a  note,  but,  put  to  shame  or  inspired  by  the  Arden 
champagne,  the  latter  made  rough  weather  with  something  out  of 
"Our  Miss  Gibbs."  Rosemary  was  at  length  persuaded  to  sing 
a  verse  of  an  Apache  song  she  had  picked  up  in  Paris.  She  stood 
beside  Faith  at  the  piano,  the  candlelight  casting  vague  shadows 
upon  her  face  and  gown. 

"C'est  la  valse  brune 
Des  chevaliers  de  la  lune, 
Que  la  lumiere  importune, 
Et  qui  recherchent  un  coin  noir." 

The  minor  key  of  the  little  air  suited  the  slender  timbre  of 
her  voice.  Everybody  said  the  thing  was  charming;  Adrian  for 
his  part  was  so  haunted  by  its  wistful  quality  that  it  came  back 
to  him  in  after-years  with  the  power  of  a  presentiment. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  ARDEN  65 

Arden  brought  the  concert  to  a  close  with  "D'ye  ken  John 
Peel,"  which  he  roared  out  with  great  heartiness  and  his  head  on 
one  side,  insisting  upon  everyone  joining  in  the  chorus. 

And  so,  laughing,  they  all  trooped  off  to  bed. 


CHAPTER    VI 

Incidents 

§  i 

THE  building  at  Arden  Park  was  not  architecturally  remarkable. 
The  exterior  was  plain,  but  the  interior  expressed  a  degree  of 
elegance  and  comfort — falling  short  of  luxury — that  is  seldom 
found  outside  your  English  country  house.  The  hall,  with  its 
blackened  oak-panelling,  great  fireplace,  comfortable  armchairs,  and 
red-carpeted  staircase  mounting  broadly  from  it;  the  saloon  and 
drawing-room  with  their  red  and  yellow  brocades  and  flowered 
chintzes;  a  few  quite  fine  pictures  here,  and  in  the  dining-room;  a 
smoking-room  peopled  with  Morlands;  a  library  sombre  with 
shelvesful  of  books  and  diamond-paned  windows  admitting  mel- 
lowed rays  of  ecclesiastical  light — all  these  bespoke  a  cultivated,  if 
not  a  cultured  taste.  And  Lord  and  Lady  Arden  were  certainly 
"cultivated."  And  Lord  and  Lady  Arden  might  have  been  selected 
from  their  native  county  of  Hampshire  as  fairly  representative  of 
the  dutiful  order  to  which  they  belonged — Arden,  with  his  rather 
erratic  interests  in  sport,  agriculture,  and  politics,  his  disposition 
towards  an  uneventful  and  leisurely  existence;  Lady  Arden,  who, 
amiable  and  a  little  aloof,  never  shirked  the  duties  of  her  position, 
opening  impartially  bazaars,  sales  of  work,  and  guild  entertain- 
ments, patronising  everything  that  asked  to  be  patronised,  looking 
at  her  garden  with  a  correctly  amateurish  enthusiasm,  reading  a 
little,  thinking  a  little,  looking  out  upon  the  world  with  a  quiet, 
fastidious  and  secluded  mind.  Their  daughter,  Faith,  followed  in 
these  footsteps.  That  it  was  an  ambitionless.,  aimless,  and  indolent 
existence  must  perhaps  be  admitted.  Arden  had  to  his  credit,  it  is 
true,  nine  years'  service  in  the  Foot  Guards  and  had  been  acquitted 

as  co-respondent  in  a  cause  celebre  before  espousing  the  hand  of 

66 


INCIDENTS  67, 

Lady  Mary  Wardour  and  becoming  domesticated.  But  he  was  not 
lacking  in  a  sense  of  duty.  He  was  not  lacking  in  a  proper  sense 
of  responsibility  in  the  approved  sequence  of  democracy.  Once  a 
week  (on  an  average)  he  went  up  to  the  House  of  Lords  when 
Parliament  was  sitting ;  he  never  spoke.  He  was  subject  to  manias 
about  things. 

§   2 

Adrian  Knoyle  awoke  early  on  the  morning  following  his  arrival 
and  saw  from  his  window  the  Arden  lawns  and  gardens  bathed  in 
dew,  the  sun  peeping  through  walls  of  blue-grey  mist.  Pheasants 
and  peacocks  were  pecking  about  the  grass  and  gravel  walks,  the 
cries  of  the  foreign  water-fowl  came  from  the  mist-enshrouded  lake. 
That  sound,  indeed,  had  already  come  to  be  associated  in  Adrian's 
mind  with  Arden. 

But  it  was  to  Rosemary  that  his  wraking  thoughts  turned.  Was 
she  awake  and  was  she,  too,  gazing  out  upon  this  enchanting  pros- 
pect? To  that  she  belonged;  something  of  her  fragrance,  of  her 
beauty  and  personality,  seemed  to  exhale  from  it.  He  frankly 
resented  the  fact  that  he  had  as  yet  obtained  no  private  word  with 
her:  they  had,  after  all,  been  in  the  house  only  a  dozen  hours. 
Would  their  opportunity  come  to-day — to-morrow?  Lady  Cran- 
ford  was  watchful;  that  she  was  on  the  look-out  to  prevent  just 
such  a  meeting  he  felt  certain.  If  the  opportunity  did  not  present 
itself — well,  it  would  have  to  be  created. 

Interspersed  with  these  thoughts  of  Rosemary  were  side-glances 
at  Gina  Maryon.  Her  active  eyes  followed  him,  but  with  an 
interest  indifferently  reciprocated.  Faith's  eyes,  too,  followed  him : 
here  were  clarity,  steadfastness — something  maternal  almost.  Well, 
she  was  Eric's  friend,  and  so  was  he.  ... 

He  descended  to  breakfast  in  a  cheerful  frame  of  mind.  Of  the 
feminine  members  of  the  party  only  Lady  Arden  and  Miss  Ingleby 
had  so  far  appeared;  of  the  men,  only  Sir  Walter  Freeman,  who 
announced  with  urbane  apologies  that  a  telephone  message  from 
London  had  summoned  him  to  a  meeting  of  his  Party  in  connection 


68  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

with  the  crisis,  but  that  with  Lady  Arden's  permission  he  would 
motor  down  again  the  same  evening,  bringing  the  latest  news. 

"Women  at  breakfast,"  Eric  had  once  laid  down,  "are  a  con- 
tradiction in  terms.  They're  out  of  place — like  colours  at  a 
funeral.  Their  bedroom  doors  ought  to  be  locked  till  10  a.m." 
Rosemary  and  Faith  were,  of  course,  exceptions — and  they  ap- 
peared last;  except  Gina,  who  had  her  breakfast  in  bed  and  might 
be  heard  singing  in  her  bath.  A  little  later  she  shrieked  observa- 
tions from  her  bedroom  window  to  whomsoever  happened  to  be 
beneath.  Lady  Freeman  was  unforgivably  punctual  and  talked 
about  the  weather. 

After  breakfast  there  was  a  rush  for  the  newspapers  which  lay 
in  the  smoking-room ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  middle  of  the  morn- 
ing that  the  younger  members  of  the  party  foregathered  on  the 
terrace.  Faith  proposed  that  they  should  walk  round  the  garden; 
Gina  appeared  just  as  they  were  setting  off.  Eric  was  walking  with 
Faith,  and  Upton  had  appropriated  Rosemary.  It  fell  to  Adrian, 
therefore,  to  wait  for  Gina,  who,  attired  in  a  brief,  transparent 
frock,  literally  sparkled  in  the  sunlight.  This  brilliance  of  sun- 
shine emphasised  the  peculiar  pearly  hue  of  her  complexion  with  its 
vivid  heightenings  of  colour  which,  one  suspected,  were  hardly  of 
Nature's  doing.  She  wore  no  hat.  She  exhaled  scent. 

Standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  French  window,  she  made  a 
gesture  of  admiration. 

"How  it  reminds  me  of  mornings  in  Florence!  Venetia  and  I 
— Venetia  Romane  has  a  villa  there,  you  know — used  to  sit  every 
morning  in  the  Boboli  gardens,  read  poetry,  and  analyse  each  other. 
The  dark  greens,  the  formal  ilexes  and  acacias — seraphic,  my  dear 
— amazing!  But — Mary  has  taste.  Don't  you  adore  the  place, 
Mr.— Adrian,  I  shall  call  you?" 

He  assented.  They  had  fallen  some  distance  behind  the  others. 
They  came  presently  to  a  shrubbery  in  the  midst  of  which  a  stone 
pergola  supported  clustering  late  roses.  Here  Gina  stopped,  saying 
that,  come  what  might,  she  would  have  a  creamy  tea-rose  which 
depended  high  overhead — she  adored  them  also.  He  picked  it  for 
her  and,  as  she  stood  breathing  the  scent,  became  aware  that  her 


INCIDENTS  69 

curious  violet  eyes  were  watching  him,  inviting  or  questioning, 
above  its  petals.  They  were  alone,  the  formal  shrubs  enclosing 
them  entirely. 

Then  she  held  out  the  rose  to  him. 

"For  you — Adrian !"  His  eyes  rose — unwillingly,  and  as  though 
impelled  by  some  force  that  was  too  strong  for  him — to  the  level 
of  hers.  For  a  second  they  stood  facing  each  other,  her  smiling 
face  upturned  in  the  sunlight.  It  was  a  moment  of  expectation  on 
her  part,  of  diffidence  and  difficulty  on  his.  ... 

He  took  the  rose  and  put  it  in  his  button-hole. 

"Thank  you,  Gina.    Now  I  must  give  you  one." 

He  picked  another  big  creamy  tea-rose  and  offered  it  to  her  with 
the  most  matter-of-fact  air  he  could  summon.  A  look  of  pique 
crossed  her  face — then  she  smiled.  She  took  the  flower  without  a 
word  and  led  the  way  out  of  the  garden  singing. 

§  3 

There  was  little  at  Arden  of  that  polite  yet  rather  futile  hanging 
around,  that  admiring  of  pictures  which  are  not  admired,  that 
lounging  about  the  hall  or  the  terrace  or  the  billiard-room,  making 
desultory  conversation — "waiting  for  the  house-party  to  begin," 
as  some  wit  has  described  it — which  characterises  gatherings  where 
people  do  not  begin  to  know  each  other  until  they  are  going  away. 
Everybody  did  as  they  liked — literally.  Arden  himself  did  not 
appear  till  luncheon,  having  been  busy  with  his  agent.  Near  to  the 
luncheon-hour  Adrian  and  Eric  joined  Orde  under  the  trees  where, 
with  an  iced  whisky-and-soda  at  his  elbow  and  his  feet  cocked  up, 
he  was  studying  the  newspapers. 

"Well,  boys,"  he  said  in  his  deep  voice,  "looks  as  if  there's  goin' 
to  be  a  war,  doesn't  it?" 

In  point  of  fact,  it  was  the  first  time  either  of  them  had  thought 
of  the  war  since  dinner  the  previous  evening. 

Eric  said : 

"Do  you  think  it's  really  coming  off,  though,  Orde  ?  The  papers 
talk  an  awful  lot  of  rot." 


70  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"I  do." 

"Well,  if  it  does,  we  shan't  necessarily  he  dragged  into  it?" 
suggested  Adrian. 

"Shan't  we?  I  think  we  shall  be.  ...  And  what's  more" — 
Orde  sipped  his  whisky-and-soda,  thoughtfully  contemplating  the 
tops  of  some  cedars  as  though  they  held  the  key  to  the  matter — "and 
what's  more,  if  we  are  dragged  in,  I  think  it'll  be  a  question  of 
every  able-bodied  chap  in  the  country  takin'  a  gun  and  shootin'— 
or  tryin'  to.  ...  Let  the  damned  politicians  say  what  they  like, 
in  the  long  run  we  shall  have  to  back  up  France  and  Belgium,  if 
they're  invaded.  Why?  To  save  our  skins,  to  save  our  own 
bloomin'  selves  from  bein'  invaded." 

Adrian  and  Eric — who  hadn't  read  the  papers — were  more 
respectful  than  impressed.  Captain  Orde  had  a  reputation  as  a 
big-game  hunter;  he  was  said  to  be  a  wonderful  shot.  Still,  they 
felt  they  really  could  not  take  this  war-talk  too  seriously. 

After  finishing  his  whisky-and-soda  and  further  contemplating 
the  tops  of  the  cedars,  Orde  inquired  abruptly: 

"Either  of  you  lads  ever  think  of  joinin'  the  Army?" 

"Not  this  one!"  replied  Adrian  promptly. 

"Yes,  I've  thought  about  it,"  said  Eric. 

"Well,  you  may  want  to  think  about  it  again,  young  feller. 
In  fact,  if  war  does  break  out,  you  will.  And  while  you're  about 
it  you  may  as  well  join  a  good  regiment  as  a  rotten  one — eh?  So" 
— he  produced  a  cigarette  and  deliberately  lit  it — "if  the  worst — or 
best — happens,  just  you  write  or  wire  me.  I'll  see  what  can  be 
done." 

The  afternoon  was  spent  lazily  and  agreeably.  The  four  "young 
people"  went  off  in  a  punt;  Lady  Cranford  and  Mr.  Heathcote 
continued  to  propound  their  own  version  of  "Who's  Who"  on  the 
lawn;  Lady  Arden  and  Miss  Ingleby  amused  themselves  by  amus- 
ing the  children,  and  Gina  and  Upton  announced  that  they  pro- 
posed to  read  each  other's  poems  in  the  Italian  garden — they  were 
producing  a  book  together.  Orde  went  to  sleep  over  Horse  and 
Hound  in  the  library.  Arden,  too,  slept. 

After  tea  a  tennis  four  was  formed  consisting  of  Faith  and  Eric 


INCIDENTS  71 

on  the  one  side  and  Rosemary  and  Adrian  on  the  other.  The 
remainder  of  the  party  were  content  to  sit  under  a  shady  cedar  and 
look  on.  Gina  said  she  didn't  play  and  Upton  that  he  couldn't. 

"How  lovely  it  all  is!"  observed  Lady  Freeman  to  Arden,  who 
was  sitting  beside  her.  "Adrian  Knoyle  is  such  a  nice-looking  boy, 
and  Lady  Rosemary  a  sweet  girl,  don't  you  think?  As  for  your 
daughter,  I  think  she's  a  dear.  We're  already  the  greatest  friends." 

"Yes.    They  play  well,  don't  they?"  Arden  agreed  rather  drily. 

A  close  struggle  was  going  forward.  Rosemary  and  Adrian  won 
the  first  two  games  without  much  difficulty,  but  by  taking  the 
next  two  Faith  and  Eric  brought  the  scores  level.  The  fifth  game 
was  prolonged  by  repeated  "deuce"  and  "vantage,"  but  went  in  the 
end  to  Adrian  and  Rosemary.  It  was  agreed  to  play  the  best  out 
of  three;  fortune  swayed  first  to  this  side  then  that.  Adrian  and 
Faith  were  the  steady  players  on  either  side,  and  the  lobbing  rallies 
between  them  provoked  applause.  Rosemary  played  with  a  certain 
nonchalant  and  effortless  grace,  by  turns  placing  the  ball  unplay- 
ably  in  the  far  corner  of  the  court  and  driving  it  a  few  inches  below 
the  top  of  the  net. 

"That  girl's  got  a  beautiful  style,"  Orde  remarked  to  Arden. 
"If  she  took  more  trouble,  she'd  win  tournaments." 

Eric  was  the  best  player  of  the  four,  his  agility  at  the  net  and 
smart  returns  eventually  winning  the  set.  After  a  brief  pause  a 
men's  double  was  proposed,  Adrian  and  Eric  opposing  Arden  and 
Orde.  Two  hard  games  followed,  Orde  revealing  a  powerful  serv- 
ice and  volleying-power,  but  owing  to  his  elderly  partner's  com- 
parative weakness,  the  younger  pair  succeeded  in  bringing  the  score 
to  two  games  all.  Orde  was  about  to  serve  for  the  second  time,  and 
stood  poised  with  his  racquet  raised,  when  a  footman  appeared 
bearing  a  salver. 

Lady  Arden  called  out  his  name. 

He  lowered  his  racquet  and  dropped  the  balls  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"A  telegram  for  you." 

He  met  the  footman  half-way  across  the  court.  A  hush  fell  upon 
the  little  group  while  he  tore  open  the  orange-tinted  envelope  and 
glanced  at  its  contents. 


72  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

He  thought  a  moment. 

"What  time  is  the  next  train  to  London?" 

"Seven-fifteen,  sir." 

No  one  spoke.  Those  under  the  cedar,  as  by  a  common  impulse, 
rose  from  their  seats. 

"Sorry  I  shan't  be  able  to  finish  the  set,"  Orde  said.  "This 
means  mobilisation.  If  you'll  forgive  me,  I'll  go  in  and  change." 

"My  dear  chap- !"  protested  Arden,  suppressed  excitement  in 

his  voice.  "Surely — you  can  stay  to  dinner?" 

"Thanks.     I'm  afraid  not." 

A  sort  of  dismay  followed  Captain  Orde's  exit  from  the  tennis- 
court.  But  it  was  soon  relieved  by  Lady  Freeman : 

"Dear  nice  Captain  Orde !  What  a  shame  he  has  to  go.  I  do 
hope  we  shall  see  something  of  him  in  London." 

§  4 

Half-an-hour  later  the  whole  party  was  bidding  Captain  Orde 
"good-bye."  Everybody  seemed  sensible  of  the  prescience  of  the 
occasion — everybody,  that  is  to  say,  except  Orde  himself,  who 
appeared  in  his  grey  flannel  suit,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  followed 
by  his  servant  carrying  the  suit-case  and  tennis-racquet.  A  car 
purred  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

At  this  moment  Sir  Walter  Freeman's  Rolls-Royce  was  seen 
approaching  round  the  bend  in  the  drive. 

"What  news?"  several  voices  cried  as  he  drove  up. 

Sir  Walter,  with  evening  newspapers  bulging  out  of  his  pockets, 
looked  important. 

"Bad,  I'm  afraid;  the  situation  could  hardly  be  worse.  The 
German  Ambassador  is  leaving  Paris.  General  mobilisation  is 
ordered  in  France  and  Germany.  Our  own  Army  and  Navy  are 
mobilising.  The  whole  of  London  is  yelling  for  war.  Only  the 
Government  wavers." 

"Well— I  must  be  off,"  said  Orde. 

All  stood  grouped  upon  the  steps  while,  hat  in  hand,  he  made 
his  farewells. 


INCIDENTS  73 

"Don't  forget  what  I  said  this  morning,"  were  his  parting  words 
to  Adrian  and  Eric. 

There  were  hand-wavings,  and  cries  of  "Good  luck!"  Little 
Miss  Ingleby  made  no  secret  of  a  moist  eye.  Then  Captain  Orde 
was  borne  swiftly  away  into  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  park. 


The  rest  of  that  evening  was  spent  quietly  by  the  house-party. 
The  conversation  at  dinner  was  all  of  the  great  events  now  indis- 
putably developing.  Even  the  younger  members  appeared  serious, 
even  Miss  Maryon  curbed  her  tongue.  Arden,  Sir  Walter,  and 
Mr.  Heathcote  embarked  on  a  long  discussion  which  hinged  upon 
whether  Mr.  Asquith  would  be  equal  to  backing  up  France.  Arden 
said  it  was  a  point  of  honour;  Mr.  Heathcote  gravely  doubted 
(from  rather  special  information  received) ;  Sir  Walter  opined  that 
pressure  of  events  would  decide  the  matter  for  us,  if  not  at  once, 
at  any  rate  very  soon.  Sir  Edward  Grey  would  make  our  position 
clear  in  the  House  of  Commons  on  Monday.  If  Germany  invaded 
France  through  Belgium — and  it  appeared  likely — we  must  come 
in.  .To  put  it  at  the  lowest,  it  was  our  interest  to  support  France 
(and  Belgium)  with  every  man  and  with  every  gun  we  could  com- 
mand; and  the  sooner  Grey  made  it  unequivocally  clear  that  we 
should  do  so  if  France  were  attacked  or  Belgium  invaded,  in  his 
(Sir  Walter's)  opinion  the  better.  Germany  was  slowly  but  surely 
revealing  her  hand — she  had  done  so  unmistakably  in  refusing  the 
Foreign  Secretary's  proposal  of  a  Conference — and  it  was  seen  to 
be  the  hand  of  a  provocateur.  He,  for  his  part,  considered  that  the 
affair  was  now  practically  beyond  the  control  of  the  statesmen — 
certainly  beyond  the  control  of  the  diplomats. 

The  only  dissenting  voice  was  Upton's,  who  contended  that 
England's  role  was  to  wait  and  see  how  the  opening  exchanges 
developed  before  involving  herself  in  a  European  War;  that  this 
course  would  place  her  in  a  position  of  arbitrary  power.  His  view 
was  so  virulently  combated  by  the  other  men,  however,  that  he  soon 
retired  into  silence. 

Lady  Cranford,  or  Lady  Arden,  or  Gina  Maryon  occasionally 


74  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

put  in  a  remark,  the  remainder  listening  or  appearing  to.  Really, 
perhaps,  everybody's  thoughts  were  with  Captain  Orde  travelling 
Londonwards.  .  .  . 

After  dinner  card-games  were  played  in  an  atmosphere  of  sub- 
dued gaiety.  Adrian's  hopes  of  a  tete-a-tete  with  Rosemary  had 
been,  of  course,  completely  dashed.  There  seemed  something  unreal 
about  the  party  that  night,  and  it  was  barely  eleven  o'clock  when 
Lady  Arden  rose  and  suggested  bed. 

"The  best  place,"  said  Gina  with  a  yawn.  "The  only  place 
where  there  isn't  a  war."  And  the  ladies  swept  off  up  the  stairs. 

Adrian  was  in  no  mood  for  sleep.  At  a  discreet  interval  he  fol- 
lowed them,  with  the  intention  of  fetching  a  book  from  his  bed- 
room. The  corridors  were  very  dark,  and  he  presently  found 
himself  stumbling  through  a  baize  door  into  quarters  that  were 
unfamiliar.  A  light  gleamed  at  the  end  of  a  passage  as  of  some- 
body's bedroom-door  standing  ajar.  At  the  same  moment  he  heard 
voices. 

"Good  night,  Harry!" 

"Good  night,  Rosemary.    Dormez-bienf" 

A  door  slammed,  footsteps  passed  away  along  the  corridor,  which 
he  now  realised  was  the  main  one,  leading  to  the  stair-case.  Upton 
must  have  been  passing  Rosemary's  room  on  some  such  errand  as 
his  own.  That  was  natural  enough. 

Yet  in  that  moment  something  stabbed  the  heart  of  him.  .  .  . 

He  found  the  way  to  his  room,  turned  on  the  light,  and  sat  down 
on  the  bed. 

"Good  night,  Harry." 

"Good  night,  Rosemary.     Dormez-bien!" 

A  perfectly  ordinary  good  night  spoken  in  perfectly  ordinary 
tones  of  voice. 

Yet — who  the  devil  had  given  this  Upton  permission  to  call  her 
by  her  Christian  name?  Who  was  the  fellow,  anyway?  So  far  as 
he  was  aware  the  two  hardly  knew  each  other,  had  danced  together 
once  or  twice,  had  met  at  Ascot.  Rosemary — Upton — what  could 
they  possibly  have  in  common?  Yet  here  they  were  calling  each 
other  by  Christian  names  at  her  bedroom  door ! 


INCIDENTS  75 

He  realised  quite  definitely  that  he  disliked  the  unwholesome- 
looking  young  man  with  the  "soulful"  eyes,  the  faintly  affected 
manner  and  speech— had,  in  fact,  disliked  him  from  the  moment  he 
set  eyes  on  him  at  the  Maryon  party.  This  "Harry" — he  was 
Gina's  friend,  not  Rosemary's. 

Was  he  jealous?  .  .  .  Could  he  be  jealous  of  this — person? 
And  Rosemary?  What  earthly  right  had  he  to  act  the  part  of 
censor  on  her  friends?  .  .  .  And,  perhaps,  it  was  all  very  simple. 
He  would  ask  her  about  it  in  the  morning.  That  she  liked  the  man 
she  had  declared  openly  at  Ascot.  "He  was  quite  too  appallingly 
clever,  and  in  the  Home  Office — or  some  kind  of  office."  And  he 
was — "funny,"  she  had  added.  He  wrote  poetry;  he  was  that  type 
of  man  whom  women  like  and  other  men  never  understand  why. 
But  the  Christian  names?  Very  young  ladies  were  fond  of  calling 
young  gentlemen  by  their  Christian  names — it  was  rather  "done" 
in  their  current  idiotic  phrase.  Yet  that  was  not  Rosemary's  kind 
of  affectation,  he  reflected:  rather  the  other  way.  .  .  .  Still,  there 
was  doubtless  some  simple  explanation. 

He  did  not  return  downstairs  that  night,  however;  he  went  to 
bed.' 


CHAPTER  VII 
Adrian  and  Rosemary 


IT  was  not  until  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day,  Sunday,  that 
Adrian's  raison  d'etre  at  Arden  was  fulfilled. 

At  breakfast  news  came  that  France  had  declared  war  on  Ger- 
many and  that  German  troops  had  actually  occupied  the  capital 
of  Luxembourg.  Mr.  Heathcote  found  that  he  could  no  longer 
importune  his  club  by  telephone,  owing  to  the  telephone  wires  being 
engaged;  instead,  stories  began  to  arrive  via  the  servants'  hall  of 
train  service  being  disorganised  and  of  lively  movements  on  the 
main  line. 

At  ten-thirty  they  all  trooped  off  to  church  in  the  customary 
manner  of  week-end  parties.  It  was  cool  and  pleasant  in  the 
church,  though  six  rubicund  little  boys  sang  like  a  choir  of  magpies. 
Sunlight  dimmed  by  coloured  glass  fell  in  pools  and  patterns  upon 
the  flags;  the  whispering  of  ivy-leaves  made  a  sibilant  accompani- 
ment to  the  voice  of  an  archaic  vicar  who  prayed  with  consuming 
earnestness  that  in  God's  wisdom  peace  might  be  preserved.  Me- 
morials to  the  Daventry  family,  scattered  about  the  walls  on  marble 
slabs,  couched  in  quaint  phrases  and  diversely  embellished,  occu- 
pied Adrian's  attention,  while  in  robust  tones,  and  with  something 
of  the  smack  with  which  he  was  wont  to  tell  doubtful  stories, 
Edward  Arden  read  the  lessons. 

Adrian  for  his  part  took  little  interest  in  the  service.  He  and 
Eric  were  acutely  distressed  by  what  they  considered  Sir  Walter 
Freeman's  unnecessarily  hearty  accompaniments  and  responses. 

During  the  sermon  a  queer  fancy  came  to  him. 

Close  at  hand  upon  a  stone  pedestal  lay  a  vizored  knight  and  his 

lady  side  by  side,  as  they  had  probably  lain  through  five  centuries. 

76 


ADRIAN  AND  ROSEMARY  77 

Their  hands  were  clasped,  the  knight's  legs  crossed,  the  expression 
upon  their  stony  faces  was  of  Time  incarnate.  Nor  could  it  be 
said  so  much  as  who  they  were,  for  the  same  inscrutable  philosopher 
had  chipped  and  blotted  out  the  Latin  inscription  upon  this,  their 
last  earthly  bed. 

Rosemary  sat  in  the  seat  in  front  of  him.  He  could  see  her  half- 
turned  profile — a  study  in  tense  and  quickening  life.  Gaiety,  inno- 
cence were  written  there — yet  something  else;  something,  indeed, 
that  he  had  seen  before  and  did  not  understand  but  that  added  to 
the  attractiveness  of  the  face.  Waywardness,  was  it?  Something 
disingenuous?  Fickleness?  Temper?  Not  these  altogether.  .  .  . 
Or  was  it  a  suggestion  of  sadness  about  the  mouth  and  eyes  ? 

It  was  then  his  strange  fancy  came  to  him.  He  saw  this  girl 
and  himself  centuries  hence,  lying  side  by  side  as  this  knight  and 
lady  lay,  their  faces  carved  in  stone,  their  hearts  withered  to  dust, 
and  from  their  last  earthly  bed  the  very  names  blotted  out. 

§    2 

When  they  returned  from  church  Upton  found  a  telephone  mes- 
sage summoning  him  to  report  to  his  Ministry  at  once. 

"Sorrow!"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh!  ye  sons  of  Israel,  of  Isaac,  and 
of  Jacob!  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this?  Gina,  ma  chere, 
this  is  indeed  cru-el!  And  all  the  afternoon  we  were  going  to 
dream  'Dreams'!  And  what  do  they  want  me  for?  I  can't  stop 
the  war.  There  is  no  poetry,  I  tell  you,  in  Government  depart- 
ments." 

"My  Harry!"  declaimed  Gina.  "Consider  yourself  a  martyr! 
Since  you  desert  me — for  your  country's  cause — I  give  you  leave 
to  kiss  my  hand." 

"A  smart  young  man.  A  clever  chap — take  my  word  for  it," 
said  Sir  Walter  Freeman,  when  Upton  had  departed.  "He'll  do 
well  when  we  want  the  best  of  them.  He'll  make  a  name  for  him- 
self. In  the  Office  they  think  the  world  of  that  young  chap." 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Lady  Cranford  was  unexpectedly  re- 
moved. She  went  with  Lady  Arden,  Mr.  Heathcote,  and  Lady 


78  WA  Y  OF  REVEL  A  TION 

Freeman  in  a  motor  to  visit  some  neighbours  who  inhabited  an 
Elizabethan  house.  There  remained  Miss  Ingleby,  who,  as  usual, 
engaged  herself  with  the  children,  and  Gina,  who,  bereft  now  of 
her  particular  young  man,  was  led  away  between  Arden  and  Sir 
Walter  Freeman  to  see  the  home-farm  and  the  young  pheasants. 
Left  to  themselves,  and  after  an  insincere  suggestion  of  tennis,  the 
younger  members  of  the  party  took  to  the  lake,  Faith  and  Eric  dis- 
appearing in  a  row-boat  in  one  direction,  Rosemary  and  Adrian 
in  another,  paddling  a  punt. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  in  the  sultry  heat  of  the  August  after- 
noon the  couple  last-named  found  themselves  gliding  along  a  little 
river  which,  branching  off  from  the  extreme  end  of  the  lake,  wound, 
narrowing,  to  the  heart  of  the  Arden  woods.  On  either  hand  great 
coverts  of  oak  and  beech  made  labyrinths  of  shade.  Overhung  by 
weeping  willow  and  ash,  low  banks  bounded  the  water's  edge. 
Clumps  of  alder  pressed  down  almost  into  the  stream.  Along  its 
borders  the  purple  loosestrife,  the  willow  herb,  the  marigold — and 
pools  of  sunlight.  Tall  bulrushes  rose  out  of  the  stream  itself,  vast 
lily-pads  lay  placidly  upon  its  surface.  Here  a  little  peninsula, 
there  a  miniature  isthmus  or  island,  farther  on  a  deep,  cool  recess 
where  the  bank  curved  inward. 

At  such  a  place  Rosemary  and  Adrian  tied  up  their  punt;  and 
on  cushions  piled  and  spread,  half-sat,  half-reclined,  one  beside  the 
other.  The  stream  eddied  past.  It  was  that  hot  hour  when  deer 
and  all  the  lesser  elves  of  copse  and  chase  lie  deep-concealed  in  fern 
and  bracken.  Silence  curtained  the  woodland,  that  sultry  August 
silence  under  the  spell  of  which  the  birds  rest,  and  only  the  purr  of 
the  stock-dove  is  heard  as  the  timepiece  of  summer.  This  and  a 
humming  of  wild  bees  between  lime  and  river  bank  made  their 
murmurous  background. 

Nor  were  the  boy  and  girl  themselves  oblivious  of  the  magic  of 
the  hour.  Strange  it  had  been  if  they,  so  full  of  the  dawning 
glamour  and  curiosity  of  Youth,  were  not  drawn  to  one  another 
now.  They  seemed,  indeed,  to  belong  naturally  and  inevitably  to 
each  other  accepting  their  fortune  with  simplicity.  They  were 
simply,  immeasurably  drawn  to  one  another,  immeasurably  of  one 


ADRIAN  AND  ROSEMARY  79 

spirit.    Side  by  side  they  lay  for  a  very  long  time,  and,  dappled  by 
sunbeams  piercing  the  canopy  of  leaves  and  boughs,  must  have 
looked  like  children  sleeping,  so  quietly  and  solemnly  happy  they. 
Afterwards,  when  for  the  one 

"Wind  and  winter  hardened 
In  all  the  loveless  land," 

when  for  the  other  life  assumed  a  different  shape,  Adrian  thought 
of  this  hour  with  steadfast  gratitude  and  faith.  After  all,  while  it 
lasted  it  was  the  perfect  thing  without  which  no  human  story  can 
be  complete.  What  might  it  have  been?  What  might  it  not  have 
been!  A  love-making  on  a  backstairs,  a  momentary  clasping  on  a 
terrace  or  a  roof-garden  of  some  London  hotel,  a  hurried  embrace 
in  a  cab,  a  snatched  instant  in  a  drawing-room,  a  glimpse,  a  ghost 
of  romance,  an  outstanding  moment  in  a  multitude  of  trivial  inci- 
dent— and  that  memory  to  carry  them  through  Time !  To  him — 
to  them — it  had  been  granted  otherwise.  Around  them  the  whis- 
pering leaves,  the  trembling  sunlight,  the  washing  of  the  living 
water,  the  benediction,  the  tenderness  and  cleanliness  of  Nature's 
breath. 

§  3 

Thus  did  Adrian  Knoyle  and  Rosemary  Meynell  plight  their 
troth.  And  thus  through  the  hazing  afternoon  they  rested  side  by 
side,  but  little  speaking.  Once  Rosemary  said: 

"It's  a  queer  thing,  this  thing  they  call  love;  it's  like  being  part 
of  someone  else  or  someone  else  being  part  of  oneself.  You  know 
what  they're  thinking  before  they  speak." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "that's  just  how  I  feel  about  it.  I  don't 
believe  there's  a  thought  you  could  think  or  a  word  you  could  utter, 
that  I  shouldn't  know  it  before  it  came." 

"Do  you  think  it  will  always  be  like  this,  Adrian?  Do — dreams 
last?" 

"For  us — yes.  But,  you  see,  there  is  another,  a  different  thing. 
That's  Gina,  I  think.  That  only  lasts  as  long  as  the  superficial 


8o  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

part  of  it  does.  But  our  love  will  go  on — and  on — because  we 
understand  each  other  as — as  we  said  just  now." 

"Gina  attracts  me  though — I  don't  know  why.  You  don't  like 
her?" 

"I  don't  say  I  don't  like  her.  But  we — well,  we  must  be  dif- 
ferent." 

A  long  silence  followed,  during  which  they  lay  quite  still. 

"I  can't  imagine  how  we  existed  before  we  met  each  other,"  she 
whispered  presently.  "It  seems  so  funny — to  think  of  us  growing 
up  and  living  and  feeling — and  yet  knowing  nothing  about  one 
another !" 

"I  believe  in — what  is  it? — predestination.  We  were  bound  to 
meet.  We  were  bound  to  fall  in  love.  Perhaps  Faith  and  Eric 
were  too.  Love  like  ours — I  think — goes  beyond  Death  and  Time." 

"How  is  it  so  many  people  fall  out  out  it  then  and  make  a  mess 
of  their  lives,  wise  boy?" 

"When  Fate  or  circumstance  cuts  in,  I  suppose,  and  obscures 
their  vision  or  distorts  instinct  or  when  mere  human  laws  cut  across 
natural  ones.  Then  people  suffer,  Rosemary.  Nature  exacts  ap- 
palling penalties.  Nature  survives  and — wins  in  the  end.  At  least 
— that's  my  idea." 

"How  deep  you  are,  and  what  a  lot  youVe  thought !  I  hope  we 
shall  never  have  a  quarrel — ever." 

"We  shall.    But  we  shall  make  it  up  again." 

"Why?" 

"Because  we  can't — well,  get  across  one  another — you  and  I. 
We  can  only  pretend  to." 

"I  hope  we  never,  never  do  have  a  quarrel,  little  fellow,"  she 
whispered,  nestling  close  to  him.  "I  hope  you  are  always  my  dar- 
ling, loving  Adrian  and  I  am  your  perfect  little  Rosemary.  Be- 
cause ...  I  am  perfect,  aren't  I?" 

§  4 

It  grew  late.  A  fresh  coolness  crept  into  the  air — very  pleasant 
after  the  fierce  heat.  A  deeper  tint  of  gold  glinted  on  the  tops  of 


ADRIAN  AND  ROSEMARY  81 

the  oaks — glinted  back  from  her  hair.  A  little  breeze  sprang  up 
and  stirred  the  spruce-firs,  the  lovers  unconscious  still:  a  new 
evening  life  softly  began  to  move  around  them.  Followed  by  their 
late  broods,  moorhens  crept  silently  out  from  the  shelter  of  the 
rushes  and  fed  contentedly.  Out  of  holes  and  rough  sedge  along 
the  bank  water-voles  peeped — and  sprang  and  splashed.  Above 
their  heads  a  willow-wren  began  his  song-race,  perched  on  a  shoot 
of  alder,  and,  trilling,  twittering,  clattering  in  an  undertone, 
whirled  up  and  down  the  scale  of  his  incalculable  notes.  Every- 
where burst  forth  the  choir  of  blackbird  and  thrush;  from  among 
the  oaks  and  chestnuts  of  the  deep  coverts  came  the  throbbing  notes 
of  a  wood-pigeon  and  the  murmur  of  life-pairing  doves. 

Now  the  light  began  to  fail  and  now  the  shadows  stealing  out 
of  the  corners  of  the  park  grew  and  lingered — deepened.  Still  the 
couple  dreamed  on,  living  their  swift-flowing  lives  to  the  full.  .  .  . 

Once  or  twice  the  foreign  waterfowl  called  from  the  direction  of 
the  lake.  It  had  seemed  to  Adrian  that  there  was  something  dis- 
sonant, ill-omened  almost  in  their  cries,  but  now  they  merged  not 
harshly  in  the  general  harmony  of  the  evening.  A  great  cawing 
and  ca-ing  of  rooks  began  as  the  noisy  birds  settled  to  roost  in  a 
clump  of  elms  not  far  away.  There  were  sounds  of  cows  lowing 
and  of  a  keeper's  whistle  from  the  woods. 

Suddenly  a  bell  tolled  briskly  from  the  great  house. 

Rosemary  stirred. 

"What's  that?" 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.    Let's  spend  the  night  here." 

"But,  my  dear,  what's  the  time?  My  wrist-watch  has  stopped. 
It's  getting  dark.  Good  heavens,  we've  missed  tea  and  everything. 
Mamma  will  slap  me!" 

"Your  mamma  will  ask  where  you've  been.  You  will  look  her 
in  the  face.  You  will  tell  her  you  are  engaged  to  marry  the  best 
of  boys.  You  will  then  thank  her  sweetly  for  her  consent.  No, 
you'd  better  not,  though — yet.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  my  angelic  Rosie, 
nothing  can  alter  the  fact  that  it's  been  the  most  wonderful  evening 
of  our  lives." 

"No,  Adrian." 


82  WAY  OF  REFEL4TION 

They  embraced. 

Adrian  punted  and  Rosemary  paddled. 

"We  shall  be  late  for  dinner,  and  my  hair's  like  hay.  What  will 
they  think  we've  been  doing?  Pray  Heaven,  I  don't  run  straight 
into  the  infuriated  woman!" 

"You  certainly  will,"  he  laughed.  "Why  worry?  She's  got  to 
know  later,  if  not  sooner." 

"But  you  don't  know  what  she  can  be  like.  And  I'm — disgrace- 
ful!" 

She  certainly  was  untidy — she  who  (he  had  long  since  dis- 
covered) was  so  particular  about  her  hair.  But  she  had  forgotten 
about  her  hair  this  evening.  That  was,  after  all,  the  supreme 
distinction  between  this  and  every  other  evening! 

Adrian  suddenly  recollected  Upton,  and  smiled  to  himself  as  he 
thought  of  his  over-night  perturbation,  and  the  fact  that  he  had 
intended  solemnly  to  tax  Rosemary  on  the  subject! 

They  raced  across  the  lawn,  forgetting  to  tie  up  the  punt,  and 
fled  to  their  respective  rooms. 

As  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  corridor  Adrian  could  hear  Lady 
Cranford's  voice  as  her  daughter  entered  the  room,  which  opened 
out  of  the  maternal  one: 

"My  dear  child,  where  have  you  been  .  .  .  ?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Gina  Maryon's  Bedroom 


ADRIAN  felt  self-conscious  —  and  looked  it  —  when  they  gathered  in 
the  drawing-room,  a  somewhat  reduced  party.  But  Rosemary  car- 
ried off  the  situation,  declaring,  in  response  to  Lady  Arden's  gentle 
inquiry,  "And  what  have  you  two  been  doing?"  that  they  had  got 
lost  up  a  backwater  and  that  that  ass  Adrian  had  led  her  astray. 
At  which  there  was  laughter. 

Gina  remarked  en  passant  how  easy  it  was  to  get  lost  when  the 
evenings  began  to  draw  in.  Arden  announced,  as  they  went  in  to 
dinner,  that  he  would  have  sign-posts  put  up  on  the  lake  pointing 
the  way  home. 

Lady  Cranford  showed  no  visible  signs  of  displeasure.  As  for 
Eric  and  Faith,  they  appeared  somewhat  piano. 

At  dinner  he  found  himself  sitting  next  Lady  Freeman,  with 
Miss  Ingleby  on  the  other  side  and  Faith  opposite.  Rosemary  was 
sitting  near  Gina  down  at  Arden's  end. 

For  some  reason  or  other  —  perhaps  it  was  a  reaction  from  the 
previous  night  —  everybody  was  in  high  spirits,  Gina  talking  sixty 
to  the  dozen,  Arden  telling  facetious  stories,  and  all  freely  par- 
taking of  champagne.  Sir  Walter  Freeman  even  dropped  his  House 
of  Commons  manner,  laughed  loudly,  and  betrayed  a  lively  flush 
on  his  bald  brow  and  expansive  face.  He  was  doing  himself  well, 
too,  feeling  perhaps  that  it  was  the  last  excuse  for  hilarity  any  of 
them  would  have  for  a  long  time. 

Lady  Freeman,  Adrian  found  chatty.  Some  remarks  from  Gina 
on  the  subject  of  current  literature  set  her  off. 

"Are  you  fond  of  reading,  Mr.  Knoyle?  I'm  sure  you  are.  I 

83 


84  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

love  a  nice  bright  tale  with  plenty  of  incident.  But  modern  authors 
are  so  unsatisfying,  aren't  they?" 

"Oh!  any  old  thing  does,"  the  young  man  answered  flippantly. 
"The  Winning  Post  Annual,  or  Dostoievsky — as  long  as  you 
haven't  read  it  before." 

"Oh,  dear!    You  young  men " 

She  wasn't  sure  whether  he  had  said  something  smart  or  some- 
thing shocking. 

"Ah!  You  prefer  a  variety,"  she  rallied,  steering  a  middle  course. 
"Most  young  people  do.  And  no  doubt  you're  right.  It  broadens 
the  mind." 

"I  find  mine  gets  broadened  without  much  reading,  Lady  Free- 
man." 

"Yes?  The  life  of  a  young  man  about  town!  I  know."  She 
was  intolerably  arch.  "Well,  Society,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  best 
education  a  young  man  can  have.  It  broadens  the  mind.  And  I 
like  to  think  myself  a  little  broad-minded,  you  know,  Mr.  Knoyle. 
It's  my  little  weakness.  I  believe — I  may  be  wrong — in  young  men 
sowing  their  wild  oats,  not  being  molly-coddled.  Nothing  un- 
pleasant, of  course.  But  now  I'm  talking  like  a  grandmother,  and 
it's  not  so  long " 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  wasn't  listening.  He  had  become  aware 
of  a  pair  of  violet  eyes  watching  him.  They  met  his  return  look 
with  a  challenge — then  turned  away. 

Gina  Maryon  had  been  "chaffing"  Arden  and  Sir  Walter  Free- 
man (to  the  latter's  considerable  gratification)  vigorously.  She 
now  transferred  her  attention  to  Adrian. 

"A  penny  for  yer  thoughts!  What's  he  dreaming  about? 
A  young  man — do  you  know  this,  Sir  Walter? — never  looks  so 
interesting  as  when  he's  in  love."  Adrian  played  with  a  dessert- 
spoon and  turned  his  ear  to  Lady  Freeman.  "Which  is  not  being 
personal,  because  I  don't  think  Adrian's  capable  of  being  in  love. 
He's  cynical — which  means  he's  young.  What  do  you  think,  Lady 
Freeman?  I've  noticed  young  men  always  grow  cynical  about  the 
time  they  come  of  age.  It's  just  then,  you  know,  they  begin  to  have 
a  *past' — you  can't  have  a  'past*  before  you're  twenty-one ;  you  can't 


GINA  MARYON'S  BEDROOM  85 

with  your  utmost  endeavours  accomplish  anything  more  than  an 
'indiscretion.'  But  what  I  really  meant  to  ask  was,  Can  a  cynic 
fall  in  love?  I  say  not — genuinely.  What  do  you  say,  Sir 
Walter?" 

"Oh!  Miss  Maryon,  really,  you  must  not  ask  me  these  ques- 
tions!" protested  the  elderly  gentleman,  flushing  with  pleasure. 
"I  am  not  a  man  of  the  world,  you  know — a  mere  politician!" 

"You  mean  a  person  who  rolls  other  people's  logs  and  gets  four 
hundred  a  year  for  doing  it!  Even  politicians,  though,  are  men 
of  affaires!" 

There  were  groans  at  this,  and  Gina  herself  deprecated  it  as  the 
worst  thing  she  had  ever  said. 

"I've  never  heard  of  a  politician  falling  in  love,"  said  Arden. 
"They're  all  cynics." 

"Parnell,  Edward!"  suggested  Lady  Cranford  unexpectedly. 
She  had  not  appeared  to  be  aware  of  the  discussion. 

"Ah,  Parnell  was  a  genius,  Lady  Cranford!"  Gina  rapped  out. 
"To  genius  anything  is  possible — and  permissible.  Genius  has  a 
soul.  Politicians  have  no  souls.  Sir  Walter,  I  can  see,  has  a  soul." 

Sir  "Walter  bowed,  smiling  all  over  his  crimson  countenance. 

"That's  true,"  Lady  Freeman  reflected  aloud,  "what  Miss 
Maryon  was  saying  about  genius  being  able  to  do  anything.  I 
remember  hearing  Mr.  Hall  Caine  once.  .  .  ." 

Gina  rose  precipitately. 

After  dinner  games  were  proposed.  Dancing  on  Sunday,  Faith 
said,  was  not  considered  good  for  the  servants'  hall.  Card  games, 
too,  were  prohibited.  Gina  proposed  hide-and-seek.  Was  it  pos- 
sible to  do  anything  more  harmless?  For  this  everybody  was 
pressed  into  service  except  Lady  Arden,  who  went  to  say  "good 
night"  to  the  children,  and  Arden,  who  was  left  conversing  with 
Lady  Cranford  on  the  subject  of  London  society  in  the  'eighties. 
Miss  Maryon  deliberately  chose  Sir  Walter  Freeman  to  "hide" 
with,  and  they  were  absent  so  long  that  the  only  possible  presump- 
tion was  that  they  were  repeating  the  adventure  of  the  afternoon, 
until  it  was  found  that  she  had  locked  the  worthy  gentleman  and 
herself  in  a  summer-house,  of  which  they  had  jointly  lost  the  key. 


86  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

When  it  came  to  Rosemary's  and  Adrian's  turn  Lady  Cranford 
intervened  unexpectedly. 

"No,  Rosemary,  I  think  you'd  better  not,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  catch  a  chill.  Mr.  Knoyle  won't  mind  finding  some- 
body else  to  hide  with." 

A  glint  of  anger  so  fiercely  petulant  that  it  surprised  Mr.  Knoyle 
himself  leapt  into  her  eyes.  She  said  nothing. 

Adrian  hid  Miss  Ingleby  instead. 

§   2 

An  appreciable  time  after  everybody  had  retired  to  rest  that 
night,  a  somewhat  over-excited  party  of  five  might  have  been  dis- 
covered in  Miss  Maryon's  bedroom,  which  was  at  some  distance 
from  everybody  else's.  It  was  what  Gina  called  a  "dressing-gown 
party."  At  an  hour  when  Lady  Cranford  imagined  her  daughter 
to  be  sleeping  in  the  adjoining  room — they  had  parted  on  a  note  of 
admonition — that  young  lady  might  have  been  found  in  a  dressing- 
gown,  her  golden  hair  flowing  to  the  waist  and  bound  together  only 
with  a  ribbon,  lying  on  Miss  Maryon's  bed,  smoking  a  cigarette. 
Faith,  similarly  attired,  sat  on  a  sofa.  Gina  herself  was  seated  on 
a  gold  cane  chair  in  front  of  the  looking-glass,  robed  in  big,  coloured 
flowers,  and  apparently  transferring  the  contents  of  a  number  of 
small  pots  to  her  face. 

Adrian  and  Eric,  also  smoking  cigarettes,  lolled  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed.  Altogether  it  was  such  a  scene  as  must  have  annihilated 
the  goddess  of  Convention,  had  the  good  woman  appeared  that 
night. 

A  scent  hung  about  Gina  Maryon's  bedchamber,  faint  but  un- 
characteristic of  the  rest  of  the  house.  It  was  a  musky  scent. 
Beside  the  bed,  in  addition  to  an  elaborately-bound  book,  stood  a 
little  travelling  decanter  containing  brandy  or  whisky,  a  syphon  of 
soda-water,  and  some  glasses. 

They  had  talked  of  every  sort  of  thing;  there  had  also  been 
pillow-fighting,  telling  of  stories,  and  such-like  entertainment.  At 
length,  Faith — in  her  capacity  of  daughter  of  the  house — thought 


GINA  MdRYON'S  BEDROOM  87 

it  had  gone  on  long  enough,  and  Adrian  and  Eric,  taking  a  hint, 
left  the  room  together. 

When  they  stopped  at  Eric's  door  Adrian  said: 

"Congratulate  me,  old  boy,  it's  fixed!" 

Eric  looked  at  his  friend  without  surprise.  He  slapped  him  on 
the  back. 

"I  do  congratulate  you.  My  blessings  on  you  both.  Rosemary's 
a  duck,  and  you're  a  lucky  lad.  ...  As  for  me — well,  I'm  sent 
empty  away." 

Eric  laughed,  but  there  was  the  faintest  note  of  pain  in  the 
laugh. 

"You  too—?" 

"This  afternoon." 

"No  luck?" 

"She  says  try  again  in  six  months!  Sounds  like  an  application 
for  something  out  of  stock,  doesn't  it?" 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear  chap.  But  it'll  be  all  right.  Faith's  a 
slower  sort  than  Rosemary.  She  takes  longer  to  make  up  her  mind, 
that's  all.  You  can't — take  her  by  assault." 

"Six  months!  God  alone  knows  what  will  have  happened  by 
then.  I  may  have — married  little  Joyce  or  something!" 

"You'll  be  a  parti,  instead  of  a  prospective  one !    Good  night." 

§3 

"You've  not  been  letting  the  grass  grow  under  your  feet  then, 
young  Rosemary!"  laughed  Gina  after  the  young  men  had  gone. 

"I've  known  him  a  good  long  time,  you  know,"  the  girl  pro- 
tested. 

Rosemary  and  Gina  had  been  on  a  christian-names  footing  almost 
since  their  first  meeting.  That  was  Gina's  way  when  she  liked 
people. 

"Well,  you're  a  very  beautiful,  attractive  little  puss,  aren't  you?" 
she  said,  coming  across  to  the  bed  and  looking  at  her  friend  atten- 
tively. "And  I  think  you'll  make  Adrian  an  immaculate  wife. 
I'm  sure  he's  the  sort  of  young  man  who  wants  an  immaculate  wife. 


88  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

He's  so  very  celibate  himself — really — isn't  he?  Beware  of  the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil  meanwhile  1" 

Rosemary  laughed. 

"Trust  me!" 

"By  the  way,  have  the  Knoyles  anything  to  bless  themselves 
with?"  Miss  Maryon  inquired  casually,  returning  to  her  chair  at 
the  dressing-table. 

"Goodness  knows!"  There  was  a  touch  of  resentment  in  the 
younger  girl's  voice.  "I  know  nothing  about  the  £  s.  d.  and  don't 
want  to." 

Gina  turned  to  Faith. 

"As  to  you,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "I  think,  if  you  ask  my  opinion, 
you're  a  damned  fool.  Here's  a  nice  young  man,  plenty  of  money, 
and  plenty  to  come.  How  much  more  do  you  want?  .  .  .  What 
a  double  event,  though !  Fancy !  Two  proposals  in  an  afternoon !" 

She  poured  herself  out  a  brandy-and-soda. 

Faith  had  been  sitting  quietly  on  the  sofa.  She  looked  remotely 
unhappy. 

"No,  Gina,  I  don't  think  so.  I'm  very  fond  of  Eric.  He's  nice 
and  gay,  and  dances  well  and  all  that,  but  one  wants  something 
more  than  that — and  he's  very  young.  The  money  part  doesn't 
count  with  me  one  little  bit." 

She  spoke  very  seriously. 

"Well,  I  ask  again — what  more  can  you  want?  They're  much 
better  when  they're  taken  young" — it  was  a  peculiarity  of  Gina's 
to  speak  of  the  male  sex  collectively,  as  of  a  species — "you  can 
mould  them  to  yourself.  Later  on  they  get  'set'  and  principled  and 
have  their  own  opinions.  That's  such  a  bore,  don't  you  think?" 

"But  that's  just  it,  Gina,"  Faith  interrupted.  "Eric  lacks  that. 
He  lacks  character.  He's — finicking.  He's  a  little  playboy,  and  no 
more.  Very  much  like  a  dozen  other  little  London  youths  one 
knows.  .  .  .  And  he  thinks  too  much  of  his  clothes.  I  told  him 
so  to-day.  He's  amusing  with  his  tricks  and  jokes  and  ways,  and 
he's  nice  in  himself.  But  I'm  not  in  love  with  him,  and — you  can 
laugh,  Gina! — I  want  something  more  than  that.  Of  what  use 
is  he?  Will  he  ever  do  anything?  Will  he  ever  show  what  he's 


GINA  MAKYON'S  BEDROOM  89 

made  of  or  that  he's  got  anything  in  him?  Has  he  a  profession 
even?  Frankly,  I  could  only  marry  a  man  who  means  to  make 
something  more  of  his  life  than — just  fooling  around.  And  I  told 
him  that,  too." 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me,  I  think  you're  flying  too  high,  judging  by 
the  majority  of  'nice  young  men'  one  meets."  Gina  studied  herself 
carefully  in  the  glass.  "You're  looking  for  a  prospective  General 
Gordon  or  something." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Faith  replied  resolutely. 

"Of  course,  he's  very  young,  he  may  develop,"  put  in  Rosemary 
from  the  bed.  "They  often  do.  Adrian's  come  on  a  lot  since  I've' 
known  him." 


§4 

At  this  same  moment,  the  individual  named  happened  to  be 
searching  for  his  cigarette-case  in  his  bedroom.  He  had  written  a 
letter,  and  he  wanted  a  cigarette  before  going  to  bed. 

He  had  looked  everywhere — on  the  dressing-table,  in  the  drawers, 
in  his  pockets. 

Gina's  room!  He  remembered  leaving  it  on  the  bed  after  offer- 
ing Rosemary  one.  Could  he  go  and  ask  for  it?  The  other  two 
would  probably  still  be  there.  Besides — with  Gina  anything  was 
possible. 

He  opened  the  door.  Someone  came  along  the  passage.  It  was 
Faith. 

"Not  gone  to  bed  yet,  naughty  boy?"  she  whispered.  Don't 
make  a  noise !" 

"I  was  just  going  along  to  get  my  cigarette-case.  I  left  it  in 
Gina's  room." 

"You'll  find  her  visible — more  or  less.  We've  just  left  her.  By 
the  way,  old  Adrian,  all  my  congratulations.  Rosie's  told  me." 

She  pressed  his  hand. 

"Thank  you,  Faith.    I  value  them  from  her  greatest  friend." 

She  looked  at  him — slowly  and  thoughtfully. 

Her  face  was  in  shadow,  but  he  suddenly  realised  she  was  crying. 


go  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

§5 

He  found  Gina's  bedroom-door  wide  open.  She  was  sitting 
at  her  dressing-table  in  front  of  the  looking-glass  so  that  her  profile 
confronted  him.  He  was  astonished  at  what  he  saw. 

Instead  of  the  animated  expression,  they  had  worn  a  few  minutes 
earlier,  the  features  were  wan,  relaxed,  disillusioned. 

It  wasn't  Gina — but  it  was  Gina.  Not  the  mask  but  the  face. 
Not  the  child  of  the  twentieth  century  but  the  ghost  of  that  child. 
When  he  tapped  at  the  door  he  had  an  almost  guilty  feeling,  as 
though  he  had  suddenly  come  upon  something  the  eye  was  not 
meant  to  see. 

She  called  to  him  to  come  in.  Her  voice,  too,  was  changed — 
the  life  had  gone  out  of  it.  Having  made  his  apologies  and  secured 
his  cigarette-case,  he  would  have  retired.  Gina,  however,  seemed 
anxious  to  talk,  anxious  for  sympathy  or  for  company.  Nothing 
loth,  and  indeed  wishful  to  penetrate  the  curious  creature's  mood, 
he  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

He  again  became  sensible  of  the  scent  pervading  the  room, — a 
scent  which  vividly  recalled  the  Berkeley  Square  "maisonette." 
Nor  could  he  help  noticing  the  profusion  of  trinkets  and  articles  of 
toilet  on  her  dressing-table — gold  and  silver  pots  and  boxes,  gold- 
backed  and  ivory  brushes,  bottles  of  scent  in  finely  cut  glass.  He 
particularly  remarked  a  gold  snuff-box  of  the  Louis  XIV  period, 
beautifully  enamelled.  He  picked  it  up  to  examine  it. 

"No!  Be  careful!  Give  me  that,  Adrian!"  she  cried  almost 
snatching  it  from  him.  "It's — it's  precious.  It  belonged  to  my 
father  and  my  grandfather."  Having  recovered  possession  of  the 
article,  she  added  more  calmly:  "It's  a  lovely  little  thing,  though, 
isn't  it?  I  never  go  anywhere  without  that." 

She  locked  the  little  box  away  in  a  drawer. 

§6 

That  Gina  was  sensitive  to  Adrian's  opinion  of  herself  there 
could  be  no  doubt.  Her  personality,  her  versatility,  her  magnetism, 


G1NA  MARYON'S  BEDROOM  gi 

which,  one  was  told,  had  brought  her  fifty  proposals  of  marriage, 
made  apparently  no  impression  upon  Adrian  Knoyle.  That  struck 
at  the  roots  of  her  vanity.  She  even  felt  that  he  despised  her,  as 
men  despise  the  vanity  of  women  whom  they  view  sexlessly.  She 
was  not  even  sure — and  this  genuinely  pained  her — that  Adrian  so 
much  as  recognised  the  substance,  the  accomplishment,  the  real 
cleverness  and  adaptability  which  she  rightly  estimated  as  hers. 
Actually  he  did  recognise  these  qualities.  But  he  would  under  no 
circumstances  concede  the  fact. 

For  his  part,  Adrian  took  another  view  of  the  young  woman 
from  that  night  onward.  First  knowing  her,  she  had  alarmed  him ; 
she  then  alarmed  him  at  intervals;  she  now  alarmed  him  no  more. 
By  some  curious  power  of  discernment  he  had  always  seen  through 
the  scintillation  of  her  social  self — even  when  he  knew  her  only  by 
sight  and  reputation.  He  had  suspected  (without  interest)  that 
there  might  be  more  underneath.  He  had  never  genuinely  admired 
her.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  only  spasmodically  disliked  her. 
Now  he  frankly  pitied  her. 

For  there  she  sat  before  him,  huddled  together  on  a  gold-caned 
chair — weariness,  reaction,  self-pity  inscribed  upon  her  face.  The 
appeal  for  sympathy  was  so  obvious,  the  self-pity  so  unmistakable. 

Yes — he  felt  sorry  for  her.  He  also  liked  her  better  than  he  had 
ever  liked  her  before. 

"What's  the  matter,  Gina?"  he  said  cheerfully.     "Over-tired?" 

"The  matter?  Nothing.  Only  that  I'm  overdone  and  fed  up 
and  desperately  sick  of  everything,"  she  burst  out.  "I  don't  know 
what's  the  matter  with  me.  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  felt  like  that? 
.  .  .  I'm  on  the  verge  of  an  abyss.  And  I  don't  know  what's  at 
the  bottom  of  it.  .  .  ."  She  gave  a  queer  little  sound  that  was 
more  like  a  sob  than  a  laugh.  "One  leads  the  life  of  a  maniac. 
Good  God,  how  hopeless  it  all  is!  How  rotten,  how  empty,  how 
futile!  Just  think  of  what  one's  been  doing  all  this  summer! 
One's  never  been  still  for  a  moment,  one's  never  been  alone,  one's 
never  thought  of  one  damned  thing  worth  thinking  of,  one's  never 
done  a  damned  thing  but  amuse  oneself.  And  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing,  to  show  for  it.  The  older  one  grows  the  more  discon- 


92  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

tented  one  becomes,  and  the  more  one  asks  of  Life  the  less  one  gets. 
.  .  .  Heaven  knows,  I've  had  everything  I  could  ever  want,  and 
yet  I'm  never  really  happy — never,  never,  never.  Why  cant  one 
sit  down  and  think,  or  not  think?  Why  in  God's  name  can't  one 
sit  still?" 

She  began  to  do  something  to  her  hair — put  pins  in  it  or  take 
them  out. 

"What's  to  be  done,  Adrian?  Are  you  happy?  ...  I  suppose 
you  think  I'm  just  foully  selfish  and  vain  and  all  the  rest  of  it — a 
sort  of  glorified  joy-girl,  what?  Most  people  think  that.  .  .  . 
You  needn't  deny  it.  I  can  see  you  do.  ...  I  tell  you  the 
Leicester  Square  ladies  are  happier  than  I  am,  a  hundred  thousand 
times.  .  .  ."  She  laughed  again  hysterically.  "Oh,  God,  how 
fed  up  I  am  with  it  all !  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  marry.  And 
yet  I  couldn't  stick  being  married.  Or  could  anyone  stick  me — • 
beyond  the  honeymoon  ?  Do  you  know  I've  never  been  in  love  in 
my  life?  ...  I  seem  to  be  full  of  contradictions.  I  wish  I  could 
be  good  and  go  to  church  and  be  charitable.  I  feel  like  the  'bad 
girl  of  the  family'  in  the  last  act  but  one.  And  it's. getting  pretty 
near  the  last  act  with  me.  Do  you  think  one  would  be  any  happier, 
though,  if  one  was  like  that?  Adrian,  how  is  one  to  be  happy?" 

"Don't  ask  me,  Gina.  I'm  all  right — but  then  I've  hardly 
begun  to  live  yet.  I  always  thought  you  got  more  out  of  life  than 
anybody  I  knew." 

"Most  people  think  that.  .  .  .  And  I  get  nothing  out  of  life, 
neither  pleasure  nor  peace  nor  happiness  nor  love.  I  don't  believe 
I've  even  got  any  friends — not  real  ones.  Look  at  Harry,  for 
instance !"  Her  voice  became  contemptuous.  "I  don't  tell  him  so, 
but  I  know  Harry  inside  out.  I  know  perfectly  well  he  plays  about 
with  every  woman  who'll  let  him.  And  when  he's  bored  with  them 
he  comes  running  back  to  me.  Not  that  I  care  that  much !"  She 
crushed  a  cigarette-end  into  the  carpet.  As  long  as  I  keep  the 
colour  of  my  eyes  and  my  hair,  my  'friends'  will  do  that.  Useful 
sort  of  friends !  And  when  that  dies  I  shall  die  too." 

"You're  suffering  from  the  Age,  my  dear  Gina.  You're  suffering 
from  having  everything  you  want  and  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It's 


GINA  MJRYON'S  BEDROOM  93 

the  disease  of  society  just  now.  The  world's  been  going  round  too 
long  without  anything  happening — anything  real.  One  can't  get 
a  grip  on  anything  unless  one  has  to.  One  lives  a  life  of — well, 
sham,  I  agree.  But  there  you  are,  you  don't  want  to  take  up  dis- 
trict visiting!  You  don't  want  to  marry.  If  war  comes  it  may 
alter  things.  .  .  ." 

She  offered  him  a  cigarette.  It  was  scented,  sickly,  but  he  could 
not  at  once  think  how  to  get  rid  of  it.  Presently  he  began  to  feel 
dizzy. 

He  knocked  the  burning  end  off  with  his  finger  and  threw  the 
stump  under  the  bed. 

She  stared  at  herself  in  the  looking-glass,  yet,  to  judge  by  her 
expression,  saw  nothing. 

But  he  noticed  something  he  had  not  noticed  before.  There  was 
no  rouge  on  her  cheeks  now.  They  were  of  a  pearly  hue,  trans- 
parent almost.  And  they  were  the  exact  tinge  of  Upton's  unwhole- 
some complexion.  .  .  .  And  her  eyes.  They  were  not  brilliant, 
exciting  as  half-an-hour  before,  but  glazed,  lack-lustre.  The  only 
thing  left  was  the  auburn  hair — and  was  that  her  own  ?  Was  there 
anything  genuine  about  the  woman? 

When  she  spoke  again  it  was  in  a  brighter  tone.  She  began 
"touching  up,"  smiling  at  herself  mechanically  in  the  glass.  He 
knew  what  that  meant. 

"Oh,  well!"  she  sighed  presently,  "it  can't  be  helped.  We  must 
make  the  best  of  life,  nasty  as  it  is.  I  don't  know  why  IVe  poured 
all  this  out  on  your  boyish  curly  head — except  that  I  don't  feel 
you're  spoilt  yet,  and  what  you  say  is  perfectly  true.  Give  me 
another  brandy-and-soda  and  have  one  yourself !" 

She  suddenly  came  and  sat  on  the  bed  beside  him.  The  "colour" 
was  back  in  her  cheeks,  she  looked  amazingly- — herself.  She  sat  so 
close  to  him  that  her  hand  touched  his. 

He  then  understood  her.  She  was  herself  again.  She  was  de- 
liberately taking  advantage  of  the  impression  that  the  only  glimpse 
of  nature  she  had  ever  revealed  had  made  upon  him.  She  had 
detected  the  effect,  and  she  was  exploiting  it.  That  was  Gina. 
With  all  her  egotism,  all  her  self-pity,  she  had  been  interesting  in 


94  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

her  brief  mood  of  self-revelation.  Now  she  was  aware  of  having 
been  interesting. 

Nor  could  he  know  that  she  had  been  discussing  with  Rosemary 
Meynell  the  subject  of  their  engagement  barely  half-an-hour  before. 

"Oh,  well,  and,  in  fact,  alas!  I  suppose  I  must  get  into  my 
pathetic  little  pyjamas.  .  .  .  Would  you  like  to  see  them,  all  silk 
and  saucy — if  you're  very  good  ?" 

She  watched  him,  smiling,  and  was  somehow  pressing  his  arm. 

He  rose  abruptly. 

"I'm  going  to  bed." 

Her  face  changed,     She  looked  like  an  old,  malicious  woman. 


CHAPTER  IX 
A  Summer's  Day — and  After 


ON  the  morning  of  that  August  Bank  Holiday  Sir  Walter  and 
Lady  Freeman  departed  in  their  car  at  a  quarter-past  eleven,  Sir 
Walter  desiring  to  be  in  his  place  in  the  House  of  Commons  for 
the  Foreign  Secretary's  speech  that  afternoon,  while  Lady  Freeman 
no  doubt  felt  her  presence  also  was  required  in  the  centre  of  events. 
Faith  had  to  walk  down  to  the  village  to  visit  her  "poor  people," 
in  which  good  office  she  was  accompanied  by  Eric.  Gina  disap- 
peared with  Arden.  Rosemary  and  Adrian  strolled  over  to  the 
farm,  then  sat  in  the  garden  until  luncheon-time.  After  luncheon 
the  two  couples  went  off  in  the  boat  and  punt  respectively,  armed 
with- baskets,  kettles,  and  packages  of  food,  the  idea  being  to  picnic 
in  the  woods  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the  lake. 

"How  delightful  to  see  them  all  so  happy,  Helena,  my  dear!" 
remarked  Lady  Arden  to  Lady  Cranford  as  she  watched  them  start 
from  her  shady  chair  on  the  lawn. 

"Yes,  but  we  could  not  do  that  sort  of  thing  in  our  day,  Mary. 
Well,  I  suppose  one  must  give  them  their  heads  or  they'll  take  to 
their  heels " 

"The  young  people  enjoy  life  more  than  they  did  then,"  observed 
Mr.  Heathcote.  "Not  so  much  restraint,  not  so  much  formality. 
I  am  undecided  whether  it  is  an  unmixed  blessing."  He  chuckled 
rather  foolishly. 

"I  love  to  see  them  amusing  themselves,"  said  Lady  Arden. 

"You're  lucky  with  Faith,  Mary,"  remarked  Lady  Cranford. 
"She's  such  a  sensible  young  woman.  Rosemary  one  has  to  be 
firm  with — very.  She's  so  naturally  headstrong — like  all  the 
Meynells — and  she's  just  reached  the  age  when  gals  are  apt  to  think 

95 


96  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

they  can  do  what  they  like.  This  young  Adrian  Knoyle  she's 
making  such  friends  with — he  seems  a  nice  young  man — but  of 
course — there  couldn't  be  anything — really." 

"Oh,  let  them  have  fun  while  they  can,  my  dear  Helena!" 
The  four  returned  just  as  the  dinner-bell  was  ringing  and  their 
elders  were  beginning  to  be  apprehensive.  They  were  hot,  flushed, 
and  in  a  condition  of  extreme  merriment.  After  dinner  they 
walked  arm-in-arm  about  the  gardens  until  they  were  summoned  in. 
Then  Eric  amused  the  company  with  card-tricks,  and  other  tricks 
with  handkerchiefs  and  glasses  of  water  turned  upside  down,  and 
boxes  of  matches,  and  feats  of  strength  which  weren't  strength  at 
all,  until  bed-time,  when  they  separated,  happy  and  tired,  vowing 
that  it  had  been  such  a  perfect  day  as  they  would  never  forget. 

Nor  did  any  one  of  them  feel  that  his  or  her  allotted  span  of 
careless  youth  was  drawing  to  a  close. 

§2 

Tuesday  broke  hotter  than  ever,  and  at  his  waking  Adrian  ex- 
perienced a  sense  of  reaction.  He  dreaded  the  return  to  used-up, 
washed-out  London,  where  he  would  have  to  spend  at  least  a  week. 
Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Knoyle  had  taken  a  furnished  house  at  Ascot, 
which  would  not  be  available  immediately.  Then  there  was  the 
Sheringham  business  to  be  squared  up  with  his  father.  Sir  Charles 
would  infallibly  resurrect  the  whole  question  of  a  profession.  He 
knew  that  the  last  thing  Sir  Charles  would  approve  of  was  Shering- 
ham. .  .  .  Was  this  young  man  an  idle  vagabond,  or  more  selfish 
than  idle?  No.  He  did  intend  to  work  (in  earnest)  somewhere 
about  October,  when  people  begin  to  come  back  to  London.  But 
until  then — well,  really  he  must  take  leave  to  amuse  himself. 

He  and  Eric  breakfasted  alone  together  at  ten-thirty.  No  one 
else  appeared.  Both  were  depressed  at  the  thought  that  the  cheer- 
ful house-party  was  about  to  disperse.  Both  envied  Miss  Ingleby 
and  Mr.  Heathcote  who  were  staying  a  day  or  two  longer  in  the 
placid  Arden  world.  Lady  Cranford  and  Rosemary  were  motor- 
ing across-country  after  luncheon  to  the  house  of  relations  in 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY— AND  AFTER  97 

Oxfordshire.  Gina,  Eric,  and  himself  were  to  go  up  to  London 
by  the  two-forty-five  train,  since  the  earlier  one  by  which  they  had 
intended  to  travel  had  been  cancelled. 

And  when  the  two  friends  walked  round  the  gardens  together 
in  the  hot  morning  it  was  not  of  the  future  they  talked,  but  of  that 
subject  which  in  the  world's  crises  has  never  been  far  removed  from 
the  thoughts  of  men.  Eric  was  the  less  impulsive,  the  less  emo- 
tional of  the  two.  And  it  was  evident  that  his  self-confidence  had 
survived  the  set-back  he  had  received  from  Faith.  Glancing  at  his 
blandly-smiling  countenance,  it  might  have  been  suspected  that  no 
surcharge  of  emotional  capacity  lay  behind  it.  Eric's  conduct  was 
ordered  by  that  large  measure  of  conventionality,  which  in  most 
people  takes  the  place  of  an  original  and  active  mind.  So  far  was 
his  horizon  limited.  In  Adrian,  on  the  other  hand,  there  were 
always  possibilities  of  revolutionary  or  of  evolutionary  change.  The 
nature  and  quality  of  their  affections  revealed  the  difference  in 
temperament  between  the  two.  Eric's  blood,  it  might  be  felt, 
would  never  warm  beyond  the  point  when  he  would  be  likely  to 
exceed  the  sharply-defined  limits  of  a  public-school  tradition.  One 
could* not  conceive  of  Eric  being  "carried  away";  nor  could  one 
imagine  him  carrying  away  anything  much  more  substantial  than  a 
good  time. 

Strolling  back  towards  the  house,  they  met  the  three  girls  coming 
arm-in-arm  down  the  garden  path,  talking  and  laughing.  They 
joined  them,  and  while  all  five  wandered  slowly  round  the  gardens 
Adrian  found  his  opportunity  to  have  a  few  last  words  with  Rose- 
mary. The  latter  went  straight  to  the  point. 

"Mamma's  furious  about  Sunday,  Adrian." 

"Has  she  been  lecturing  you?" 

"No,  but  she  kissed  me  this  morning  as  though  she  meant  it. 
That's  a  bad  sign." 

"She  was  amiable  enough  to  me — almost  cordial.  In  fact,  after 
breakfast  we  talked  about  the  war  as  if  there  really  was  one." 

"Fatal,  my  dear.  We're  in  for  a  war,  I  can  see  that.  If  she'd 
been  ordinarily,  decently  rude,  all  might  have  been  well.  .  .  . 
Meanwhile,  what's  to  be  done?  Shall  we  tell  her  we're  engaged?" 


98  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"No,  leave  it  till  Sheringham,  when  we'll  spring  it  on  her  as  a 
fait  accompli.  That's  the  way  to  do  these  things." 

"I  wish  she  wasn't  such  a  difficult  sort  of  woman.  Some  girls 
are  so  inestimably  blessed  in  their  mothers!  Faith,  for  instance. 
Could  anyone  be  more  unpractical  or  more  sensible  than  Lady 
Arden?  I  don't  believe  she  knows  she's  got  a  daughter." 

"It's  just  the  same  with  father — in  a  different  way.  He  wants 
to  know  the  whys  and  wherefores  of  everything — and  hasn't  even 
the  decency  to  tell  you  the  amount  of  his  bank  balance.  I  always 
thought  there  should  be  perfect  confidence  between  father  and  son, 
and  that  the  prerogative  of  gentility  was  generosity.  With  him 
it's  just  the  other  way." 

"By  the  by,  what  are  your  'prospects,'  Adrian?  Not  that  it 
matters.  But  mamma  is  sure  to  ask.  She  always  does  about  every 
young  man  who  speaks  to  me  under  the  age  of  fifty-five." 

"None — at  present.  But  in  October  I'm  going  to  be  a  diplomat 
— or  something." 

"Mamma's  idea,  you  know,  is  that  I  am  to  retrieve  the  family 
fortunes.  Now  that  the  best  pictures  at  Stavordale  are  sold  I'm 
the  only  marketable  asset." 

"I  quite  understand.  The  Knoyles  are  one  of  those  high-prin- 
cipled old  families  which  show  their  contempt  for  the  empty  lure 
of  meretricious  gold  by  keeping  it  locked  up  in  the  bank." 

"Have  you  anything  much  of  your  own?" 

"About  five  pounds,  darling.  But  the  Ledger's  run  in  less  than 
a  month,  and  a  friend  of  Eric's  has  a  horse  running." 

"What  are  we  to  do,  my  dear  boy,  if  we  want  to  be  married 
soon?" 

"Compromise  each  other  hopelessly  and  blackmail  our  respective 
parents  into  giving  their  consent.  There  are  advantages,  you  know, 
even  in  respectability.  .  .  .  Don't  worry,  my  angel!  I'll  have  it 
out  with  the  old  boy.  He  always  manages  these  things  in  the  end — 
has  to." 

When  they  came  to  the  Italian  garden  where  Adrian  had  stood 
with  Gina  and  where  the  shrubs  and  high  surrounding  hedge  hid 
them  from  view,  they  stopped.  Both  knew  that  the  moment  of 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY—AND  AFTER  99 

farewell  had  come.    Adrian  took  Rosemary  in  his  arms  and  held 
her  so  for  a  long  time. 

Through  the  hot  stillness  rasped  the  cries  of  the  foreign  water-, 
fowl  on  the  lake. 


§  3 

After  luncheon,  the  three  went  off.  Until  the  last  moment  the 
talk  was  of  the  forthcoming  reunion  at  Sheringham — not,  of  course, 
in  Lady  Cranford's  hearing.  The  two  girls  implored  Gina  to  join 
the  party.  Gina  gave  an  enthusiastic  assent,  which  Adrian  hoped 
and  believed  to  be  insincere.  She  would  assuredly  only  come  if  she 
could  be  accompanied  by  a  retinue  of  poets,  artistes,  and  "long- 
haired, pale-faced  young  men."  That  was  the  safeguard. 

Rosemary  and  he  shook  hands  at  parting  in  a  suitably  formal 
manner.  No  ghost  of  prescience  rose  between  them — only  a  sense 
of  regret  at  a  good  time  ended,  and  of  looking-forward  to  good 
times  to  come.  His  final  impression  of  Arden  Park  was  of  Arden 
himself  standing  at  his  massive  front  door  with  his  head  thrown 
back  and  a  little  on  one  side,  laughing,  and  shouting  after  them 
"not  to  get  mixed  up  in  the  war."  .  .  . 

The  train  was  a  slow  one.  Gina  read  a  book,  Eric  went  to  sleep, 
and  Adrian  studied  a  newspaper  upside  down.  The  first-named, 
entirely  her  normal  self,  had  betrayed  no  consciousness,  by  word 
or  sign,  of  Sunday  night's  happenings. 

The  only  incident  of  the  journey  was  when  they  passed  a  noisy 
trainload  of  troops  and  horses — artillery  or  cavalry — on  their  way 
down  the  line.  At  Waterloo  they  noticed  a  number  of  soldiers  in 
unfamiliar  khaki,  carrying  little  bags  and  packages. 

They  left  Gina  at  the  miniature  green  house  tucked  away  in  a 
corner  of  Berkeley  Square.  Faded  pink  geraniums  drooped  in  the 
window-boxes ;  it  wore  an  air  of  cheerful  deshabille. 

"Good-bye,  boys!"  the  volatile  creature  cried.  "Be  good,  and 
if  you  can't  be  good,  be  careful!  We  shan't  forget  each  other, 
shall  we?" 


ioo  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

§4 

Adrian  dropped  Eric  at  his  rooms  off  St.  James's  Street,  drove 
home,  unpacked,  had  tea,  and  wrote  some  letters.  The  friends 
had  agreed  to  dine  together  at  a  club  and  go  to  a  music-hall.  Eric 
had  suggested  taking  certain  young  ladies  to  dance  and  supper  at 
Murray's — a  project  which,  however,  Adrian  firmly  negatived. 

The  house  in  Eaton  Square  was  empty,  Sir  Charles  and  Lady 
Knoyle  having  gone  down  to  Ranelagh  for  the  afternoon.  Clocks 
ticked,  the  glaring  sunshine  beat  into  rooms,  scarcely  mellowed  by 
drawn  red  blinds.  August  sounds  drifted  up  from  the  streets — 
cries  of  children,  a  dusty  rumble  of  traffic,  the  song  of  a  cage-bird. 

Soon  after  seven  o'clock  Adrian,  in  evening  clothes,  set  out  to 
walk  to  St.  James's  Street.  He  had  barely  reached  Hyde  Park 
Corner  when  he  became  aware  of  a  peculiar  and  indefinable  atmos- 
phere about  the  streets  which  even  their  post-holiday,  dead-season 
effect  would  hardly  account  for.  Wherever  a  house  was  occupied 
maid-servants  or  caretakers  were  standing  at  the  area-gates ;  at  the 
corners  of  mews  coachmen  and  chauffeurs  were  reading  newspapers; 
groups  of  two  and  three  people  stood  at  the  street-corners. 

Hyde  Park,  it  is  true,  seemed  to  own  its  usual  population  of 
grimy  children,  lovers,  and  tired  workers  sitting  on  seats.  The 
usual  cross-streams  of  traffic  rattled  noisily  past  Hyde  Park  Corner. 
The  sense  of  "aftermath"  was  strong — but  there  was  a  sense  of 
something  stronger. 

Walking  up  Piccadilly,  he  began  to  look  closely  at  the  faces  of 
the  passers-by,  seeking  in  each  what  he  could  not  define.  They 
appeared  wan,  jaded,  dusty — it  was  not  there.  He  sought  for  it  in 
the  aspect  of  the  clubs  and  shut-up  houses — nor  there.  In  the 
policemen,  the  omnibuses,  the  closed  shops,  the  Hotel  Astoria — 
everything  he  was  familiar  with.  He  could  not  identify  it. 

While  he  was  still  puzzling  a  newsboy  rushed  out  of  Dover 
Street,  yelling.  What  he  yelled  was: 

"War  with  Germany  to-night !" 

A  score  or  more  of  Londoners  rushed  upon  the  youth  like  a  pack 
of  hounds,  jostled  him  and  each  other,  tore  the  papers  from  him; 


A  SUMMER'S  D AY— AND  AFTER  101 

their  halfpennies  jingled  upon  the  pavement.  Men  who  had  never 
met  before  shared  the  same  paper,  looking  over  each  other's  shoul- 
ders. People  jumped  off  omnibuses  and  stopped  taxicabs.  Groups 
gathered  round  individuals  who  read  aloud  from  the  Stop  Press 
news. 
Adrian  thought  of  Cyril  Orde. 


CHAPTER  X 
The  Voice  of  London 


HOT  darkness  covered  London  like  a  velvet  pall. 

Adrian  Knoyle  and  Eric  Sinclair  stood  in  a  crowd  outside  Buck- 
ingham Palace.  A  kind  of  hysteria  had  seized  the  populace. 
Cheering  crowds  paraded  the  streets;  cheering  crowds  had  waited 
for  hours  outside  the  house  of  the  King,  calling  for  a  speech.  The 
Royal  Family  had  graciously  appeared  upon  the  balcony;  nothing 
further  happened.  But  the  crowds  went  on  cheering,  and  groups 
of  people  sang  "O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past,"  or  "Rule  Britan- 
nia," or  the  National  Anthem.  The  majority,  as  by  a  conjuring 
trick,  had  produced  Union  Jacks.  If  they  had  not  Union  Jacks, 
they  waved  handkerchiefs. 

"Speech!     Speech!" 

"Down  with  Germany!" 

"Down  with  the  Kaiser!" 

"Three  cheers  for  the  British  Empire !" 

"Three  cheers  for  King  George!" 

As  the  couple  stood  there,  a  strange  murmur  seemed  to  rise  from 
all  London.  It  was  near  midnight,  but  that  low-pitched  sound 
rose  from  every  quarter  of  the  city.  It  might  have  proclaimed  a 
mob  in  revolution,  it  might  have  proclaimed  the  crowning  of  a 
monarch.  It  might  have  meant  the  acclamation  of  a  national  tri- 
umph or  the  dawn  of  some  great  popular  reform. 

It  signalised  the  death-grip  of  Europe. 

§2 

The  two  young  men  moved  out  of  the  crowd  and  passed,  by  way 

of  St.  James's  Park,  to  Whitehall.    Birdcage  Walk  was  quiet  and 

1 02 


THE  VOICE  OF  LONDON  103 

very  dark.  On  their  right  the  barracks  loomed  as  though  asleep., 
No  light  showed.  They  thought  that  strange.  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  darkness  and  quiet  they  passed  into  the  murmur  of 
a  yet  larger  crowd.  They  reached  Parliament  Square,  and  the 
giant  lighted  dial  of  Big  Ben  trembled.  The  giant  voice  behind 
struck  eleven  times.  ...  A  voice  sounded  the  knell  of  the 
world.  .  .  . 

Cheers  and  echoes  of  cheers  rose  from  the  crowds.  Processions 
of  men  and  youths  drifting  from  Whitehall  into  Bridge  Street 
stopped  and  wildly  cheered,  throwing  up  their  hats,  waving  flags. 
Now  an  undistinguished  group,  now  a  single  voice,  broke  into 
fragments  of  "God  Save  the  King,"  or  the  "Marseillaise."  It  was 
as  though  a  miracle  of  good  fortune  had  befallen  London.  Men 
and  women,  boys  and  girls,  policemen,  the  very  street-urchins 
seemed  beside  themselves  with  joy. 

The  two  friends  pursued  their  way  to  Whitehall.  An  occa- 
sional taxicab  whirred  past  aflutter  with  Union  Jacks,  loaded  and 
overloaded  with  yelling  men  and  girls.  Parties  of  people  drifted 
past — drifted  through  shadows  into  glare  of  electric-light  and  back 
into  shadows  again: — singing,  shouting,  laughing,  like  figures  in 
a  ballet.  Eric  Sinclair  and  Adrian  Knoyle  turned  into  Downing 
Street  and  crossed  the  Horse  Guards — silent,  empty. 

Out  of  the  dim  bulk  of  the  palaces  on  Carlton  House  Terrace, 
the  German  Embassy  loomed,  massive  and  white.  Adrian's  mind 
dwelt  on  that.  His  fancy  depicted  the  bowed  figure  of  an  ageing 
man  with  iron-grey  hair  and  moustache,  a  clever  face,  a  half- 
wistful,  half-sombre  expression  of  unlaughing  eyes.  He  seemed  to 
see  echoing  rooms  and  passages,  half-deserted  and  half-packed-up, 
and,  sitting  in  a  dim-lit  study,  this  man  with  his  tired  and  now 
doubly-tired  and  grave  and  wistful  face.  His  work  done ;  his  mis- 
sion ended;  the  future  of  his  country  pledged.  What  passed,  he 
wondered,  in  the  secret  chambers  of  that  mind  through  the  slow 
hours  of  the  unsleeping  night?  Heard  he  in  the  privacy  of  that 
room,  littered  with  books  and  papers  and  things  finished  with  and 
things  torn  up,  the  clamour  of  the  English  mob,  the  execration  of 
his  Emperor  and  his  country;  or  saw  he  before  him  standing,  the 


104  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

million  phantoms  of  doomed  yet  living  men  ?  Looked  he  back  with 
triumph  and  defiance  upon  the  ashes  of  his  embassy — or  was  there 
writ  upon  that  face  something  more  sinister  and  more  sad  ? 


Now  they  came  to  Trafalgar  Square.  Carnival.  How  the 
crowds  roared  and  shouted,  how  they  sang  and  cheered,  how  they 
lived  and  laughed !  They  cheered  the  war,  they  cheered  the  King, 
the  British  Empire,  France,  Russia,  Belgium,  Serbia.  They  cheered 
the  Navy  and  the  Army.  They  actually  sang  soldiers'  songs  of  the 
jingo  period  and  the  South  African  War,  and  revived  the  cry 
"England  for  ever."  Again  and  again  they  roared  "God  save  the 
King,"  "Rule  Britannia,"  and  the  "Marseillaise." 

It  was  the  spectacle  of  a  people  drunk — drunk  with  sensation- 
alism, with  over-excitement,  with  lust  for  war,  with  the  realisation 
of  a  menace  long-delayed,  with — they  knew  not  what.  They 
wanted  to  glorify,  to  idolise;  they  were  out  to  vent  the  pent-up 
feelings  of  half-a-century  of  European  peace — of  a  generation  of 
Germanophobia.  In  doing  this,  Knoyle  perceived,  they  cheered 
their  own  peril,  cheered  the  triumph  of  the  anti-Christ,  cheered 
the  downfall  of  the  world.  .  .  . 

The  spaces  and  declivities  of  Trafalgar  Square  were  lit  up 
this  night  with  an  unusual  brilliance.  The  powerful  electric  arc- 
lamps  had  been  reinforced  by  flambeaux  which,  burning  high  and 
bright,  threw  floods  of  light  around  the  pedestals  whereon  the 
lions  crouch,  and  from  which  daring  spirits  yelled  to  the  crowd 
beneath.  The  people  pressed  like  nightmoths  toward  the  glare. 
In  the  angles  of  the  granite  pedestals  the  two  friends  found  place 
to  stand. 

They  watched  the  throng  go  surging  by.  There  were  parties 
of  young  men,  arms  linked  and  marching  four-by-four  singing 
frantically,  carrying  Chinese  lanterns,  waving  Union  Jacks.  There 
were  parties  of  girls.  There  were  soldiers  borne  upon  the  shoulders 
of  civilians.  National  songs  were  being  shouted  incoherently  in 


THE  VOICE  OF  LONDON  105 

a  dozen  places  at  once.  A  youth,  springing  onto  the  parapet  of 
the  pedestal  immediately  above  their  heads,  began  to  make  a 
speech : 

"Men  and  women,"  he  screamed,  "we  are  at  war  with  Germany. 
Germany  has  plotted  this  war,  Germany  is  the  God-damndest 
country  the  world  has  ever  seen.  Shall  we  ever  give  in  to  Ger- 
many? Remember  what  Lord  Roberts  said!  Down  with  the 
politicians,  three  cheers  for  the  Army !" 

"Hip!  hip!  hip!  hooray!" 

"Three  cheers  for  the  Navy!" 

"Hip!  hip!  hip!  hooray!" 

"Down  with  the  Kaiser,  the  man  who  plotted  this  war !" 

Groans,  hisses,  jeers  from  all. 

The  youth  grew  hoarse;  at  last,  could  no  longer  make  himself 
heard.  They  could  just  see  his  face  above  them,  lit  by  the  glow 
of  a  torch,  working  maniacally.  It  was  a  weak,  pale  face — the 
face  of  a  shop-assistant  or  a  solicitor's  clerk:  an  ordinary  London 
face;  no  distinction  in  it,  no  nobility,  character  or  power,  only 
an  overmastering  excitement.  There  he  stood  in  his  threadbare 
office-suit,  his  arms  making  vehement  gestures,  one  hand  grasping 
a  soft  felt  hat,  cracking  his  high-pitched  voice — for  the  British 
Empire. 

"Now  then,  boys,  'Rule  Britannia'  all  together " 

He  waved  time  with  his  hands. 

"Rule  Britannia, 
Britannia  rules  the  waves, 
Britons  never,  never,  never 
Shall— be— slaves." 

Cheering,  cheering — a  flickering  of  the  flambeaux,  white  g\are 
of  the  arc-lights — white  faces  staring  up  at  the  puny,  gesticulating 
figure  perched  beside  the  British  Lion — a  myriad  flags  waved,  dis- 
cordant voices  raised — frantic,  fantastic  crowds  surging  through 
the  summer  night.  .  .  . 

And  behind  all  that,  unseen — throb!  throb! — the  steadfast  beat 
of  the  nation's  heart. 


io6  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

§4 

Darkness  was  in  a  fair  way  towards  dawn  when  Adrian  and 
Eric  walked  homeward  along  an  emptying  Piccadilly.  As  they 
passed  the  Hotel  Astoria  their  thoughts  turned  instinctively  to 
the  hours  played  out  within  its  portals,  hours  which,  if  the  voice 
of  the  crowd  spoke  true,  might  never  be  for  them  again. 

They  turned  into  their  club,  which  had  kept  its  doors  open  long 
beyond  its  usual  time.  A  few  members  were  still  pressing  round 
the  tape-machine.  With  difficulty  they  read  the  news: 

"At  ii  p.m.  no  reply  to  the  British  ultimatum  had  been 
received." 

They  bade  each  other  goodnight  and,  obeying  some  undefined 
impulse,  shook  hands. 


CHAPTER  XI 
A  Telegram  and  Two  Letters 


FORTY-EIGHT  hours  later  —  at  breakfast  —  Adrian  received  a  bulky 
letter  in  a  sprawling  handwriting: 

"WOODCOTE  MANOR, 

"OXON. 

"Thursday. 

"MY  DARLING  OLD  ADRIAN, 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  write  this  letter.  The  news  I  have 
is  too  awful,  and  I  am  so  miserable  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
Adrian,  darling,  just  as  I  told  you,  there's  been  an  awful  row, 
and  mamma's  been  at  me  ever  since  we  left  Arden.  She  began 
in  the  motor  almost  before  we'd  got  out  of  the  gates.  You  know 
—  or  p'raps  you  don't  —  how  awful  and  bitter  she  can  be.  Oh! 
Adrian,  I  simply  can't  tell  what  that  drive  was  like.  She  started 
by  asking  me  what  on  earth  I  meant  by  going  off  with  you  on 
Sunday  afternoon  and  not  appearing  at  tea.  She  said  everybody 
noticed  it  and  Lady  Arden  was  very  shocked  —  which  I  think  is 
ROT,  because  I  don't  think  you  can  shock  her  —  and  what  could 
I  have  been  thinking  of  and  so  forth.  This  sort  of  thing  went 
on  for  about  half-an-hour,  until  she  said  she  had  never  interfered 
with  or  even  mentioned  any  of  my  friendships  with  young  men 
(as  if  I'd  had  such  a  lot!),  but  she  really  could  not  have  me 
behave  like  this,  and  how  long  had  I  been  on  such  terms  with 
you  as  to  stay  away  for  hours  at  a  time  in  a  boat  —  it  was  a  punt  — 
and  had  I  taken  leave  of  my  senses,  etc.,  and  so  forth. 

"Well,  Rosemary  hadn't  said  anything  much  so  far,  but  when 

107 


io8  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

she  said  that  I  thought  the  moment  had  come  to  make  things 
plain.  So  I  said  she  needn't  wax  so  roth  (how  does  one  spell  that 
word?)  as,  if  she  wanted  to  know,  we  were  engaged.  I  can't 
tell  you  what  mamma's  face  was  like  when  I  said  that.  Have 
you  ever  seen  a  large,  quiet  Persian  cat  in  a  passion?  Well,  that 
was  her.  For  several  minutes  she  said  nothing;  she  gets  all  cold 
and  funny  when  she's  like  that.  Then  she  said,  well,  what,  if 
she  might  ask,  might  your  prospects  be,  because  to  the  best  of 
her  knowledge  you  hadn't  got  a  ha'penny  to  your  name  or  even 
a  profession.  Just  as  I  told  you,  Adrian.  And  what  did  /  propose 
to  marry  on?  Poor  little  me!  Don't  you  pity  me,  Adrian?  I 
felt  absolutely  helpless  and  an  awful  fool,  because  I  really  don't 
know  a  thing  about  it.  How  many  ha'pennies  have  you  got, 
though  I  don't  think  it  really  matters?  Rosemary  wants  to  marry 
you,  even  if  you  haven't  got  any. 

"The  end  of  it  all  was  she  said  our  engagement  must  be  broken 
off  at  once,  and  she  wouldn't  have  me  see  or  write  to  you  under 
any  circumstances  whatever.  You  can  imagine  what  I  felt,  though 
I  thought  Rosie  thinks  otherwise.  Hence  this  letter.  She  said 
I  must  absolutely  put  out  of  my  head  any  idea  of  my  ever,  ever 
marrying  you,  and  that  if  you  were  a  really  nice  young  man  (which 
you  aren't,  of  course!)  you  would  never  have  asked  me  which, 
of  course,  is  absolute  ROT  too,  and  I  told  her  so.  I  got  in  an 
awful  temper  too,  Adrian,  I  told  the  heartless  woman  the  more 
she  went  on  like  that  the  more  determined  I  was  that  I  would 
marry  you !  Brave  of  me,  wasn't  it  ? 

"Well,  this  went  on,  with  pauses  for  refreshment,  till  we  got 
to  Aunt  Kitty's.  Mercifully  she  had  no  party  staying  there,  so 
I  said  I  was  frightfully  tired,  and  had  dinner  in  bed  and  afterwards 
locked  the  door.  But  oh!  my  eye,  Adrian,  it  was  a  miserable 
evening,  and  I  did  long  for  you  so.  I  simply  cried  like  anything, 
but,  thank  goodness,  had  your  photograph  and  lace  hankies  to 
comfort  me  a  little.  I  think  mamma  must  have  ralented  a  bit 
during  the  night,  or  talked  it  over  with  Aunt  Kitty,  or  p'raps 
she  sees  (which  she  ought  to  know  by  this  time)  that  opposing 
me  only  makes  me  more  obstinate.  Anyhow,  she  lured  me  into 


A  TELEGRAM  AND  TWO  LETTERS  109 

the  garden  after  breakfast,  and  was,  I  must  say,  comparatively 
polite.  She  said  that,  as  a  reasonable  young  woman,  as  I  had  always 
been  so  far  (sounds  like  a  Salvation  Army  lassie,  doesn't  it?) 
I  must  see  how  impossible  it  was  to  marry  a  man  without  any 
money  or  even  a  profession,  and  that  it  would  be  very  wrong  in 
any  case  for  her  to  encourage  such  an  idea,  as  she  was  in  the 
place  of  papa.  Also  nineteen  was  much  too  young  to  think  of 
marrying  or  to  decide  for  myself.  Also  she  did  not  want  to  seem 
harsh — they  always  say  that — so  on  one  condition  she  might  possibly 
think  over  the  idea,  if  you  could  come  back  with  some  money  (and 
a  profession,  I  s'pose)  in  a  year's  time.  The  condition  is  that 
we  do  not  see  each  other  or  write  for  a  year,  which  she  says  is 
all  for  my  own  good. 

"Adrian,  damn !  I've  been  thinking  it  over  all  day,  and  I  don't 
see  any  way  out  of  it.  Do  you?  Unless  you've  got  hold  of  any 
money  and  we  can  be  married  at  once.  After  all,  a  year's  not 
so  very  long  really,  and  it  will  give  you  time  to  make  some  money 
and  get  a  profession.  (Why  don't  you  go  in  the  Army?)  P'raps 
we  shall  be  able  to  meet  now  and  then,  with  any  luck,  and  any- 
way,* we  can  always  write.  Adrian,  can  you  see  any  way  out 
of  it?  The  worst  of  it  all  is,  what  mamma  says  seems  so  beastly 
reasonable.  Do,  DO  write  and  tell  me  what's  to  be  done.  I  am  so 
utterly  miserable  and  longing  for  you.  How  I  wish  I  could  get 
out  of  this  and  awray  somewhere,  though  Aunt  Kitty  is  a  peach 
really,  and  means  to  be  very  kind,  and  so  does  Uncle  Arthur,  but 
under  the  circumstances  they  fairly  shatter  the  nerves. 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much  for  your  darling  note.  It  really 
does  look  as  if  there's  going  to  be  a  war,  doesn't  it?  Don't  get 
mixed  up  in  it,  as  old  Arden  says.  But  do,  DO  write  at  once 
and  tell  me  what's  to  happen.  We  shall  be  here  about  ten  days, 
then  go  to  the  Lynmouths',  and  then,  I  s'pose,  Sheringam. 

"Sheringam!  My  God!  That  makes  me  more  furious  than 
anything,  absolutely  tigrish,  in  fact.  But  I  can  see  it  would  be 
absolutely  fatal  for  you  to  come.  I  must  write  and  tell  dear 
old  Faith  about  it  all,  and  darling  Gina.  Gina  knows  so  much 
about  everything. 


no  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"Now  good-bye,  my  darling  old  Adrian,  and  heaps  of  kisses! 
From 

"Your  loving  ROSEMARY. 

"P.S. — Please  be  careful  about  letters  after  this.  Write  as  often 
as  you  can  but  put  them  in  an  envelope  inside  another  one  and 
address  the  outside  one  to  my  maid  Bolton,  who  is  alright. 

"P.P.S.— Love  to  Eric." 


§  2 

It  took  Adrian  some  minutes  to  realise  just  what  had  happened. 
He  felt  out  of  breath.  His  first  decided  mood  was  one  of  fury 
against  Lady  Cranford.  v  A  sort  of  catechism  went  on  in  his  mind: 

Q.  What  right  had  this  steely  old  devil  to  interfere? 

A.  She  was  Rosemary's  mother. 

Q.  Couldn't  Rosemary  decide  for  herself  whom  she  wished  to 
marry. 

A.  She  was  a  minor. 

Q.  Supposing  Rosemary  and  he  chose  to  marry  without  Lady 
C.'s  consent  ?  Other  people  had  done  so. 

A.  He  had  not  (as  Lady  Cranford  truly  said)  one  halfpenny 
in  the  world  except  a  trifling  allowance  from  his  father;  he  was 
up  to  his  ears  in  debt,  and  he  had  no  prospects  of  making  any  income 
whatsoever. 

His  mood  changed  from  anger  to  despair,  back  to  anger  and 
then  stuck  at  despair.  It  further  alternated  with  spasms  of  pity — 
pity  for  Rosemary,  alone,  at  the  mercy  of  a  heartless  mother — 
and,  yes,  pity  for  himself. 

Having  rung  up  Eric  on  the  telephone  and  put  the  matter  to 
him,  certain  facts  began  to  assert  themselves  uncompromisingly. 
By  luncheon-time  he  was  freely  blaming  himself. 

Why  in  the  name  of  heaven  had  he  not  thought  out  these  little 
matters  of  money  and  Lady  Cranford  and  Lady  Cranford's  con- 
sent? How  could  he  have  dreamt  of  marrying  under  the  circum- 
stances?— not  that  that  made  any  difference  to  their  being  engaged 


A  TELEGRAM  AND  TWO  LETTERS          in 

as  long  as  they  liked.  And  then,  again,  if  he  had  thought  it  out — 
however  laboriously — what  practical  difference  could  it  have  made  ? 
He  knew  well  enough  in  his  own  mind  that  Sir  Charles  could  not, 
or  at  any  rate  would  not,  give  him  the  wherewithal  to  marry. 
He  knew  well  enough  Sir  Charles  would  tell  him  to  go  on  and 
earn  it. 

As  to  a  long  engagement,  Eric  had  something  to  say  when 
they  met  at  their  club  in  the  afternoon.  He  ordered  two  cocktails. 
Was  it  fair,  did  Adrian  think  it  decent,  to  keep  a  girl  of  Rosemary's 
age  pledged  to  him  indefinitely?  Oughtn't  he  to  give  her  the 
option  of  breaking  off  the  engagement  during  the  year's  separation  ? 
At  first  Adrian  was  dead  against  the  idea — vowed  it  was  unneces- 
sary, that  he  was  perfectly  certain  Rosemary  wouldn't  wish  it 
herself.  Eric  persisted,  however.  Wouldn't  it  be  fairer  to  give 
her  the  chance?  Finally  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Eric  was 
right.  Whereon  a  wave  of  the  noblest  sentiment  suffused  him. 
He  would  do  the  right  thing,  yes,  he  would,  whatever  happened. 
He  would  take  Eric's  advice  and,  cost  what  it  might,  do  the  right 
thing.  .  .  . 

A  deeper  sting  had  touch  the  quick.  His  self-esteem  was  pierced. 
He  saw  himself  quite  uncomfortably  and  nakedly,  not  as  he  valued 
himself,  but  with  the  appraising,  material  eye  of  a  parent  con- 
templating the  marriage  of  a  daughter.  Lady  Cranford's  words 
were,  "he  hasn't  got  a  halfpenny  to  his  name  or  even  a  profession." 
Well — and  what  sort  of  a  picture  did  these  words  conjure  up? 

His  father  had  told  him  to  his  face  more  than  once  that  he 
was  an  idle,  good-for-nothing  fellow.  He  did  not  care  in  the 
least.  He  didn't  particularly  care  what  Lady  Cranford  thought 
of  him  so  far  as  Lady  Cranford  went.  But — would  Rosemary, 
some  day,  come  to  view  him  in  this  light?  What  about  Rose- 
mary  ? 

"Without  a  halfpenny  to  his  name,  without  even  a  profession." 

Of  all  this  he  said  nothing  to  Eric.  But  this,  in  fact,  was  the 
thought  that  caused  him  silently  to  writhe.  It  was  just  a  little 
more  than  he  could  stand. 


ii2  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

§  3 

His  mind  made  itself  up. 

The  so-moving  events  of  the  last  few  days  had  not  been  lost 
upon  him.  The  night  of  the  Fourth  of  August  had  been  succeeded 
by  a  period  of  quivering  suspense.  Already  the  plain  duty  of 
every  free  and  able-bodied  young  Englishman  was  becoming  clear. 

After  tea  Eric  despatched  a  telegram  in  their  joint  behalf. 

Returning  home  at  speed,  Adrian  wrote  a  letter  to  Rosemary 
in  which  he  formally  accepted  Lady  Cranford's  contract,  while 
firmly  renouncing  most  of  its  stipulations.  He  expressed  the  hope 
that  they  might  even  meet  within  a  month,  and  this  restored  to 
his  after-reflections  a  measure  of  optimism. 

Early  on  the  following  morning  the  two  young  men  received 
a  reply  to  their  telegram.  It  was  a  request  to  report  at  once 
to  the  lieutenant-colonel  commanding  Orde's  regiment  in  Lon- 
don. .  .  . 

A  fortnight  later  they  were  gazetted  second  lieutenants  (on 
probation). 


END  OF  PART  THE  FIRST. 


PART  THE  SECOND: 
DISILLUSION 


.  .  .  and  lo,  there  was  a  great  earthquake;  and  the 
sun  became  black  as  sackcloth  of  hair,  and  the  moon 
became  as  blood; 

And  the  stars  of  heaven  fell  unto  the  earth,  even  as  a 
fig-tree  casteth  her  untimely  figs,  when  she  is  shaken  of 
a  mighty  wind. 

And  the  heaven  departed  as  a  scroll  when  it  is  rolled 
together;  and  every  mountain  and  island  were  moved 
out  of  their  places. 

And  the  kings  of  the  earth,  and  the  great  men,  and 
the  rich  men,  and  the  chief  captains,  and  the  mighty 
men,  and  every  bondman,  and  every  fre°.  man,  hid 
themselves  in  the  dens  and  in  the  rocks  of  the  mountains; 

For  the  great  day  of  his  wrath  is  come;  and  who  shall 
be  able  to  stand? 

REVELATION  VI,  12-17. 


CHAPTER  I 
The  Baptism  of  Fire 


NEAR  daybreak  of  a  March  morning,  the  battalion  to  which  Adrian 
Knoyle  and  Eric  Sinclair  belonged  was  forming  up  in  the  main 
street  of  Estaires,  a  small  manufacturing  town  in  the  province 
of  Artois,  Northern  France. 

Six  hundred  bayonets  were  mustering,  but  in  the  darkness, 
through  which  snowflakes  lightly  fell,  little  could  be  seen  save  the 
shadowy  line  into  which  the  column  by  degrees  resolved  itself. 
There  could,  however,  be  felt  an  obscure  sound  of  men  moving: 
there  were  shouts  and  words  of  command,  a  motor-bicycle  panted 
past,  there  were  the  grate  of  wheels,  the  stamping  of  horses'  feet 
where  a  group  of  chargers  stood,  and  the  jingling  of  their  bits. 

If  a  key  were  required  to  the  character  of  the  scene,  it  was 
winter.  An  icy  wind  blew  down  the  street.  Newly-fallen  snow 
lay  upon  rooftops  and  pavements.  The  troops  wore  greatcoats. 
As  the  light  grew  and  the  column  with  repeated  halts  began  to 
edge  forward,  it  was  possible  to  discern  that  the  soldiers  were 
khaki-clad  and  British,  that  they  were  men  of  exceptional  physique 
— burdened  with  the  weight  of  full  marching  equipment — that 
many  carried  their  rifles  slung.  Limbers  loaded  with  machine- 
guns,  with  belts  of  ammunition,  and  with  big  bluish-grey  boxes 
of  rifle  ammunition  followed  in  train  of  each  battalion ;  stretcher- 
bearers  carrying  their  stretchers  on  their  shoulders  followed  in 
train  of  each  company.  The  cause  of  the  incessant  stoppages  was 
a  long  procession  of  transport  wagons  and  field  artillery  which, 
having  been  parked  in  the  town  Place  before  the  old  Hotel  de 
Ville,  were  now  on  the  move,  and  somehow  or  another  had 
to  take  their  place  in  the  middle  of  the  apparently  endless  column. 

IT? 


u6  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Daylight  had  far  advanced  by  the  time  the  main  body  of  infantry 
reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  Early  as  the  hour  was,  the 
inhabitants  stood  at  the  doors  of  their  debitants  and  estaminets 
or  peeped  from  the  windows  of  their  dingy  tenements.  Women 
with  shawls  over  their  heads  formed  groups  at  the  street-corners; 
men  in  blue  blouses  and  peaked  caps,  the  traditional  costume  of 
the  French  industrial  worker,  watched  from  the  kerbs  or  passed 
stolidly  to  work.  For  them  it  was  the  customary  apparition  of 
an  army  marching  out  of  the  night. 

For  three  days,  it  is  true,  the  town  and  neighbouring  villages 
had  been  packed  with  troops;  all  night  long  the  rumble  of  guns 
and  tramping  of  an  easterly-moving  soldiery  had  been  heard  in  the 
streets.  Yet  considering  the  proximity  of  the  front  line — no  more 
than  four  miles  distant — everything  in  that  direction  seemed 
curiously  calm  and  silent. 

The  two  friends  marched  side  by  side  in  rear  of  their  company, 
Captain  Cyril  Orde  at  its  head.  For  three  miles  or  more  beyond 
the  town  they  followed  with  countless  stoppages,  the  main  pave 
road  which  leads  from  Merville  by  way  of  Estaires  and  Sailly- 
sur-Lys  to  Armentieres.  As  they  marched  a  low  muttering  began 
to  tremble  along  the  eastern  horizon,  the  effect  of  the  sound  on 
their  ears  being  that  of  a  number  of  small  drums  tapping  in  the 
distance,  with  the  occasional  thump  of  a  big  drum  obtruding  itself 
above  or  rather  through  the  rest.  Aeroplanes  appeared,  humming, 
purring,  whirring.  And  then  eastwards,  again,  an  occasional  pale 
flash  against  the  grey,  morning  sky  showed  where  a  hundred  guns 
were  firing. 

The  battle  of  Neuve  Chapelle  had  begun. 

The  men  turned  to  each  other  and  pointed.  The  mist  lifted, 
the  sun  came  out.  A  Staff  officer  rode  past  on  a  bicycle,  shouting: 

"The  first  three  lines  of  trenches  have  been  taken  with  slight 
loss." 

Once  the  whole  Brigade  halted  for  half-an-hour  in  a  big  field 
near  a  red-brick  factory.  The  men  had  breakfast,  the  white-haired 
Brigadier  rode  round  on  a  grey  horse.  A  roar  like  an  express 
train  followed  by  an  explosion  and  a  cloud  of  smoke  close  to 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  117 

the  factory-chimney,  gave  the  alarm.  The  Brigadier  shouted  an 
order.  Battalion  by  battalion  they  moved  out  and  on. 

Orchards  and  ruined  cottages  full  of  troops  in  concealment 
bordered  the  road.  An  unceasing  stream  of  traffic  attempted  to 
pass  the  marching  column.  To  Knoyle,  who  had  so  far  seen  no 
more  of  war's  paraphernalia  than  the  trench-foreground  and  the 
silent  approach  to  the  trenches  by  night,  all  this  was  vitally  in- 
teresting. It  was  much  as  he  had  imagined  it  would  be.  Red 
Cross  ambulances  and  grey  Staff-cars  pushing  past,  motor-despatch- 
riders,  cyclist-orderlies,  artillery-limbers  and  ammunition  wagons, 
all  impatiently  trying  to  move  back  or  forward.  Eric,  on  the  other 
hand,  nothing  seemed  to  interest  except  the  march-discipline  of 
his  men. 

Progress  was  slow,  but  after  winding  about  among  a  number  of 
lanes,  during  which  all  sense  of  direction  was  lost,  they  found 
themselves  in  the  battery-area,  and,  once  in  advance  of  the  firing 
guns,  could  no  longer  hear  or  speak  with  comfort.  Yet  even  here, 
with  one  exception,  actuality  was  not  at  variance  with  anticipation. 
Knoyle  saw  the  black  noses  of  heavy  howitzers  peep  forth  from 
their'canopy  of  leaves  and  belch  flame  and  blue  gunpowdery  smoke 
— a  whole  battery  simultaneously — followed  by  a  collective  detona- 
tion that  was  overpowering.  He  smelt  the  cordite.  He  saw  the; 
barrels  recoil  fiercely  on  the  carriages  and  the  gunners,  clad  only 
in  shirts  and  breeches,  cleaning,  loading,  reloading,  working  like 
ants  or  little  demons.  What  he  had  not  anticipated  amid  the 
turmoil  that  would  naturally  reign  within  a  couple  of  miles  of 
the  fighting-line,  was  the  spectacle  of  a  French  peasant  ploughing 
with  an  old  white  horse. 

They  halted  in  a  sunny  meadow  by  the  roadside.  Winter  had 
begun  slowly  to  merge  in  spring.  The  cannon  roared,  but  a 
spring  breeze  stirred  grass  and  tree-tops.  Aeroplanes  hummed 
and  whirred,  but  a  lark  sang  as  on  any  March  morning  above 
English  fields. 

Thinking  of  such  things,  the  young  man  made  acquaintance  with 
pain  and  death.  Soldiers  came  trickling  back  from  the  battlefield 
— men  with  bloodstained  uniforms,  and  white-bandaged  heads  and 


n8  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

arms  and  hands:  not  badly  wounded  men,  but  frightened,  shaken 
creatures  with  sallow  faces. 

The  waiting  troops  crowded  round,  asking  questions. 

"What's  it  like  down  there?  How  are  things  going?  How 
far  have  they  got?  Did  you  see  many  Germans?" 

The  replies  were: 

"It's  bloody  hell  down  there,"  or 

"We  got  their  front  line,  but  we're  all  wiped  out." 

Occasionally  one  would  say: 

"Going  fine.  We've  got  all  three  lines,  and  the  boys  are  shoving 
right  on." 

A  little  later  stretcher-cases  came  along.  And  these  impressed 
Adrian  with  their  likeness,  as  he  conceived,  to  corpses — so  white, 
so  still,  with  eyes  closed. 

Long  processions  of  prisoners  began  to  pass — tall,  fair  Prussians 
with  mien  expressive  of  a  proud  stolidity.  Morning  merged  im- 
perceptibly in  afternoon,  afternoon  in  evening,  and  still  they  sat 
on  their  sunny  bank — Orde,  Eric,  and  Adrian — smoking,  munching 
sandwiches  or  chocolate,  dozing.  German  shells  burst  with  mathe- 
matical regularity  round  a  haystack  half-a-mile  away.  The  thunder 
of  the  artillery  never  ceased. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  The  voice  was  Pemberton's — 
Pemberton,  the  hero  of  black-striped  kid  gloves.  The  young  man 
had  been  Adrian's  companion  on  the  journey  from  England,  and 
was  attached  to  another  company.  Khaki  suited  him  better  than 
a  dress-suit.  His  large,  simple  face  expressed  an  amiable  placidity. 
He  had  strolled  across  to  ask  for  news. 

"It  reminds  me  of  a  sham  fight  at  Earl's  Court,"  Adrian  replied. 
"More  noisy,  though,  and " 

"So  tiring,"  put  in  Eric.    "Such  a  beastly  row/' 

"It  will  be  fun  if  it's  like  this  to-morrow,  won't  it?"  said 
Pemberton. 

"Sufficient  unto  the  day "  quoted  Adrian.  "Let's  hope  we 

'young  officers'  don't  make  fools  of  ourselves." 

"Yes — have  you  boys  inspected  emergency-rations  and  water- 
bottles  in  your  platoons?"  demanded  Orde,  looking  up  sharply 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  119 

from  the  field-service  pocket-book,  in  which  he  was  writing.  "The 
order  for  the  attack  will  be  marching-order  without  greatcoats. 
Hear?" 

"Mine  are  all  right,"  said  Eric. 

"Oh!  lord,  I  forgot  the  damned  water-bottles,"  said  Adrian. 

"Don't  forget,  then !  Have  you  both  counted  your  three  hundred 
and  sixty  rounds  per  man?" 

"Yes." 

"No.    Sorry,  Cyril.    I'll  go  and  do  mine  now." 

"Yes,  and  get  a  move  on,  young  feller." 

"Well,  so  long — I  must  be  getting  back,"  said  Pemberton, 
taking  Orde's  instructions  as  a  hint.  "Hullo!  What  on  earth's 
that?" 

A  curious  and  increasing  sound  like  an  impending  whirlwind 
made  itself  heard. 

Orde  looked  up,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"Gee-whiz!"  ejaculated  Eric. 

A  couple  of  hundred  yards  away  an  aeroplane  came  spinning, 
whirling,  twisting  to  the  ground. 

"Heavens!"  gasped  Adrian. 

"Like  a  shot  pheasant,"  said  Ordc. 

Ten  minutes  later  two  stretchers  were  borne  down  the  road. 
On  each  lay  a  limp  figure  in  overalls,  the  face  covered  up.  Adrian 
thought  they  looked  like  mummies.  He  and  Pemberton,  who 
had  joined  the  battalion  a  fortnight  later  than  Eric,  did  their  best 
to  suppress  any  visible  evidence  of  shock  or  surprise. 

A  certain  sympathy  born  of  common  experiences  and  new  emo- 
tions had  sprung  up  between  them.  Outwardly  and  visibly  it 
expressed  itself  in  offering  each  other  cigarettes.  They  said  little 
to  each  other;  they  had  little  to  say.  But,  for  his  own  part, 
Adrian  saw  and  freely  recognised  in  the  other  a  new  man  born 
out  of  the  harmless  individual  who  was  "all  wrong."  For  one  thing, 
he  could  not  forget  that  in  the  crowded  railway-carriage  coming 
"up  the  line,"  Pemberton  had  insisted  on  lying  under  the  seat 
while  he  lay  on  it. 

In  Eric,  Adrian  had  already  noticed  new  and  surprising  things. 


120  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

Eric  did  not  appear  to  take  his  soldiering  any  more  seriously 
than  might  have  been  expected;  in  fact,  in  England  he  had  earned 
the  reputation  of  being  "idle" — the  "could-if-he-would"  sort  of 
officer.  But  on  active  service  he  had  disclosed  a  curious  faculty 
for  getting  things  done.  With  him  they  happened — and  he  smiled. 
He  never  noticeably  exerted  himself — never.  He  retained  his  old 
foppish  neatness  of  personal  appearance.  He  was  still  partial  to 
small  tricks — but  they  were  enlisted  in  the  service  of  the  common- 
wealth. It  was  Eric  who  got  the  fire  going;  it  was  Eric  who  kept 
it  going  and  boiled  the  mess-tin;  it  was  Eric  who  made  the  tea — 
and  Eric  who  did  odd  things  with  twigs  and  boughs  and  water- 
proof sheets.  It  was  Eric  who  "contrived;"  he  revealed  a  genius 
for  these  things.  Orde  was  too  busy:  Adrian  at  a  loss.  Eric 
smiled  frequently  if  fastidiously. 

When  dark  fell  the  order  came  to  move. 

"We're  going  to  billet  in  a  farmhouse  about  a  mile  from  here 
for  the  night,"  Orde  announced.  "We  shall  probably  attack  to- 
morrow morning,  so  hurry  along,  boys,  and  bag  some  sleep  while 
you  can." 

They  did  their  best  to  hurry  along  with  their  platoons.  But 
they  crept.  They  crawled.  Troops  moving  in  both  directions, 
and  wounded  and  transport,  made  progress  well-nigh  impossible. 
There  were  collisions,  stumbles,  and  much  hard  swearing  in  the 
pitch-darkness  on  the  rutty  road.  Cavalry  coming  up  the  side-roads 
with  jingle  of  bits,  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  neigh  of  horses,  blocked 
the  way.  Artillery  ammunition-limbers  nearly  ran  over  them. 
All  this,  however,  was  considered  of  good  augury  for  the  battle. 

§   2 

It  was  midnight  before  Captain  Orde  had  found  sleeping-quarters 
for  the  whole  of  his  company.  With  oaths  he  turned  a  number 
of  Hussar  troopers  out  of  an  estamlnet  and  barn.  Eric  meanwhile, 
having  discovered  a  heap  of  fairly  clean  straw,  had  made  a  large 
pallet  which  he  proceeded  to  spread  on  the  floor  of  the  farmhouse 
kitchen;  on  it  there  was  just  room  for  all  three  to  lie.  Adrian 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  121 

lost  his  way  in  the  dark,  and  finding  it  again,  felt  ashamed.  Orde 
looked — and  said  nothing.  The  three  of  them  then  lay  down  under 
their  greatcoats,  too  tired  to  talk.  A  peasant-woman,  wooden- 
featured  and  incredibly  ugly,  brought  hot  coffee,  and  with  a  ma- 
ternal air,  tucked  up  each  of  them  in  turn. 

"Good  old  gal!"  ejaculated  Orde.    "Damned  good  coffee,  too." 

"Oh!  charming  woman!"  murmured  Eric. 

These  two  fell  asleep. 

Not  so  Adrian;  he  could  not  sleep.  The  heavy,  old-fashioned 
oil-lamp  burnt  itself  out,  casting  queer  shadows  about  the  beamed 
kitchen  that  had  been  the  home,  no  doubt,  of  many  generations 
of  peasants.  The  old  woman  went  into  the  next  room  and  for 
some  time  her  sabots  could  be  heard  clanking  about  the  brick 
floor.  At  length  these,  too,  became  silent.  Only  the  rats  scuffled. 
The  men  snored  in  the  outhouses  and  passages.  On  the  shelf  an 
ancient  wooden  clock  ticked.  Orde's  and  Eric's  regular  breathing 
told  of  a  dreamless  rest.  Adrian,  weary  though  he  was,  lay  on 
his  side  staring  into  the  embers  of  the  fire,  going  over  and  over 
in  his  mind  the  last  six  momentous  months  of  his  life.  Out  of  a 
medley  of  memories  three  events  stood  in  relief.  First  the  August 
day  upon  which  he  and  Eric  had  introduced  themselves  to  the 
novel  perplexity  of  wooden  huts,  parade-grounds,  mess-rooms,  and 
ante-rooms  represented  by  Aldershot.  There  followed  a  dead-level 
monotony  marked  by  signposts,  labelled  with  such  terms  as  "Squad- 
drill,"  "Company-drill,"  "Musketry,  Course  A  and  Course  B" — • 
all  pointing  in  the  same  lurid  direction.  Then  Eric  had  left  for 
the  front.  A  fortnight  later  his  own  turn  had  come,  and  he  recalled 
a  dour  evening  when — after  days  of  unimaginable  rush — he  found 
himself  sitting  opposite  his  father  and  mother  in  a  little  restaurant 
somewhere  near  the  King's  Road,  Chelsea.  He  recalled  the  at- 
mosphere of  false  jocularity  that  pervaded  the  occasion,  his  parents' 
pathetic  solicitude,  the  sharp  twinges  of  conscience  and  of  regret 
that  smote  him  then.  What  had  he  ever  done  for  them  (he  remem- 
bered reflecting)  except  take  them  for  granted  in  the  brief  intervals 
of  his  restless  search  for  pleasure?  .  .  .  There  came  the  bright 
cold  January  noonday  at  Waterloo,  with  Pemberton  bidding  fare- 


122  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

well  to  a  frankly  sobbing  mother,  and  his  own  fiery  father  crumpled 
up,  inexplicably  humbled,  and  yet  parentally  proud,  waving  fare- 
well with  a  bamboo-handled  umbrella  as  the  train  glided  out  of 
the  station.  And  they  had  passed  through  Basingstoke. 

Next  followed  an  impression  of  going  up  to  the  front — a  two 
days'  train  journey  in  biting  frost,  a  rat-ridden  night  in  a  tobacco 
factory  at  Merville,  a  twelve-mile  march  through  a  misty  morning, 
and  a  greeting  from  Orde  and  Eric  outside  a  farmhouse.  Yes — 
Orde,  oddly  rough  and  unfamiliar,  was  at  the  end  of  it.  By  a 
stroke  of  luck  (and  special  application)  he  had  been  posted  to 
Orde's  company,  to  which  Eric  already  belonged.  There  had 
then  come  his  first  night  fatigue  and  his  first  four-day  tour  in 
the  trenches,  during  which  nothing  more  exciting  had  happened 
than  an  introduction  to  the  uttermost  degradation  human  existence 
seemed  capable  of  amid  mud  and  slime.  Finally  they  had  moved 
back  in  prepartion  for  the  attack. 

It  was  a  source  of  the  utmost  satisfaction  to  him  that  he  had 
not  been  frightened  at  first.  The  trenches  were  ghostly  and  hideous 
and  mysterious — but  not  frightening.  A  shell  had  burst  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  him  and  he  had  not  "ducked" ;  he  had  "ducked" 
on  subsequent  occasions,  but  only  when  he  wasn't  thinking.  It 
is  true  nothing  much  had  happened — one  machine-gunner  killed 
by  a  bullet,  but  it  was  in  Eric's  bit  of  line.  Yet  how  abominable 
it  had  been !  Frost  and  food  mixed  with  mud — above  all,  mud ! 

Ever  in  the  background  of  these  later  impressions  was  the  Grand 
Illusion  of  the  bygone  summer  and  of  that — now — puny  world 
which  sank  daily  further  and  further  behind  them  all.  And  there 
was  Arden :  that  strange  interval  which  so  sharply  divided  the  one 
set  of  memories  from  the  other. 

Rosemary.  She  had  been  in  his  thoughts  in  all  places,  at  all 
hours,  but  especially  in  the  loneliness  of  nights — and  this  night 
above  others.  For  what  would  the  morrow  bring  forth  ?  That  he 
could  not  even  visualise.  .  .  . 

The  firelight  flickered  on  in  the  beamed  kitchen.  Again  and 
again  his  mind  went  back  to  the  intense  moments  of  his  great 
experience;  again  and  again  he  dwelt  on  every  little  incident  with 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  123 

her.  His  brain  worked  in  a  groove,  round  and  round  it  went  like 
a  bicycle-chain.  Trying  to  immerse  himself  in  the  past,  forgetting 
the  present,  he  found  only  insubstantiality. 

With  sleep  at  last,  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  an  orderly 's 
voice : 

"Is  the  Captain  there,  please?" 

He  woke  Orde,  who  rubbed  his  eyes,  cursed,  and  looked  at  his 
watch. 

The  olderly  handed  him  a  slip  of  paper. 


Dawn  broke  across  the  Flanders  plain  in  streaks  of  black  and 
ashen-grey,  shedding  upon  the  countryside  a  cheerless  light.  They 
soon  left  the  road  along  which  they  had  been  marching,  and  in 
single  file  followed  a  light  ammunition  railway  across  fields.  No 
word  was  spoken.  It  was  all  a  man  could  do  to  pick  his  way 
along  the  narrow  track  on  either  side  of  which  lay  liquid  mud. 
Now  and  again  they  met  parties  of  weary  Highlanders  trudging 
back  from  the  firing-line.  In  the  distance  a  gun  boomed.  Close 
at  hand  another  answered.  One  by  one  that  sullen  booming  was 
taken  up  along  the  line  behind. 

As  the  light  grew,  bullets  began  to  whiz  and  hum  above  their 
heads,  making  every  variety  of  odd  sound.  First  occasionally, 
then  increasingly  until  the  air  sang  with  them.  Quite  close  in 
front  there  was  a  sudden  little  burst  of  rifle-fire  like  the  crackling 
of  dry  sticks.  They  came  to  a  road  swarming  with  troops.  It 
was  the  front  line. 

All  were  ordered  to  press  close  together  behind  a  high,  thick 
sandbag  breastwork.  Shells  were  bursting  on  and  behind  the  road 
with  an  accuracy  that  was  evidenced  by  the  loud,  child-like  whim- 
perings of  men  who  had  fallen  or  were  crawling  along  it.  Bullets, 
too,  pattered  against  the  breastwork's  outer  face. 

They  formed  a  sort  of  line.  Orde  looked  at  his  watch.  The 
advance  was  timed  for  seven  o'clock.  There  were  ten  minutes  to 
go.  The  two  friends  crouched  close  together.  Eric  was  asking 
questions  of  his  men,  making  suggestions  to  his  platoon-sergeant, 


124  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

and  giving  orders  in  sharp,  business-like  tones.  He  seemed  to 
know  exactly  what  was  expected  of  him ;  Adrian  fooked  on,  anxious 
to  do  whatever  the  situation  demanded,  but  chiefly  conscious  of 
his  own  inadequacy. 

Glancing  along  the  line,  he  could  just  see  Pemberton's  smiling 
face.  Pemberton  was  all  there;  Pemberton  was  equal  to  the 
occasion;  was  he  not  directing  and  inspiring  his  men?  All  that 
was  most  likeable  in  the  fellow  seemed  to  radiate  from  him  at 
this  moment:  his  simplicity,  his  solidity,  his  stolidity.  Adrian 
studied  the  faces  of  individual  soldiers;  some  of  them  wore  a 
smile,  some  were  unnaturally  composed,  some  sickly-white.  He 
was  very  frightened,  nevertheless  tried  to  Compose  his  own  to  an 
unemotional  rigidity.  The  word  to  "fix  bayonets"  was  passed 
down.  A  long-drawn  rasping  sound  followed.  His  platoon-ser- 
geant— a  hulking  fellow,  already  the  hero  of  battles — said  to  a 
friend,  "Don't  stick  me,  Jimmy!"  and  laughed. 

The  colonel  of  the  battalion  came  along,  with  his  adjutant, 
shouting  bloodthirsty  expletives  in  a  sort  of  fox-hunting  vernacular. 

Orde  had  his  whistle  between  his  lips;  every  man's  head  turned 
that  way.  In  that  moment,  Adrian  saw  Orde  in  flannels  on  a 
tennis-court. 

Every  man  was  poised  in  a  crouching  attitude,  with  one  foot 
on  the  side  of  the  breastwork  and  one  on  the  ground.  It  was 
like  waiting  for  the  start  of  a  race.  Above  the  crash  of  the  bursting 
shells  and  the  gradually  increasing  crackle  of  musketry  he  could 
hear  his  Colonel  bawling: 

"One — two — three!  .  .  .  Now,  boys!" 

Orde's  whistle  blew.  Adrian  caught  sight  of  his  lean  figure 
on  the  skyline — and  himself  and  everybody  else  clambered  onto 
the  parapet.  But  he  found  he  could  not  run.  He  could  only 
flounder  and  stumble  forward  through  the  mud.  He  had  to  leap 
trenches.  He  had  to  extricate  himself  from  loose  strands  of  barbed 
wire  which  snared  him  by  the  puttees.  He  barely  apprehended 
a  landscape  that  consisted  of  yellowish-brown  mud,  watery  shell- 
holes,  piles  and  rows  of  whitish  sandbags,  crooked  iron  stakes  with' 
bits  of  barbed  wire  hanging  from  them,  one  or  two  splintered 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  125 

stumps  of  trees.  A  hundred  yards  of  this,  and  he  saw  low, 
irregular  heaps  of  battered  sandbags  immediately  in  front — beyond 
these  a  shallow  ditch.  He  saw  the  man  on  his  right  throw  himself 
flat.  They  all  threw  themselves  flat.  One  or  two  grey  heaps 
of  clothes  and  some  pieces  of  revetting  material  lay  about.  He 
conjectured  that  they  were  in  the  German  front  line,  and  not  a 
German  to  be  seen — except  those  muddy  grey  heaps. 

The  men  crowded  into  the  ditch  and  behind  the  sandbags,  but 
there  was  not  room  for  everybody — or  shelter  from  the  bullets. 
The  big  sergeant  who  had  said  "Don't  stick  me,  Jimmy!"  sud- 
denly jumped  up  with  a  shout.  Adrian  thought  he  had  seen  a 
German,  and  shouted,  "where?"  But  the  man  began  groaning 
and  sobbing,  his  hands  clasping  his  forehead,  from  which  blood 
poured  down  his  face.  Once,  when  a  boy,  Adrian  had  seen  a 
man  bleeding  after  an  accident,  and  it  had  turned  him  feint.  This 
sight  only  filled  him  with  a  grave  wonder  and  disgust. 

Every  other  moment  somebody  was  hit.  It  was  like  shooting 
down  animals.  Every  other  moment  he  heard  the  half-strangled 
shout  or  whimpering  cry  which  told  of  a  man  killed  or  wounded. 
Two  or  three  soldiers  lay  propped,  half-conscious,  against  sangbags, 
looking  like  stuffed  figures.  One,  near  him,  lay  stretched  motion- 
less. Then  the  line  jumped  up  again.  Now  he  lost  sight  of  Orde, 
but  he  could  see  Eric  away  to  the  right  loping  across  an  open 
stretch  of  plough.  An  old  grey-haired  soldier  in  his  platoon,  with 
whom  he  had  made  friends  in  the  trenches,  tumbled  down,  shot 
through  the  stomach.  His  instinct  was  to  stop  and  give  succour* 
until  he  recollected  that  it  was  not  a  street  accident  but  a  battle. 
They  dived  under  a  strand  of  barbed  wire  and  streamed  diagonally 
in  batches  across  an  enclosure.  He  felt  he  must  do  all  he  could 
to  keep  his  men  together.  No  regular  formation  was  possible  in 
such  ground — the  men  followed  their  officers  in  groups,  or  singly, 
as  best  they  could.  How  the  bullets  hummed,  sizzled,  and  zipped ! 
.  .  .  They  came  to  another  breastwork  which  afforded  better  pro- 
tection than  the  last.  It  was  the  second  line  of  German  trenches — 
and  still  no  sign  of  a  living  German.  In  front  of  them  the  ground 
had  been  blown  into  a  mound  some  forty  feet  high  by  the  action 


126  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

of  heavy  high-explosive  shells.  The  soil  had  been  hollowed  and 
scarred  and  rent  into  a  great  cavity  which  provided  a  last  shelter 
for  many — a  pit  of  horror  indescribable.  Here  all  the  refuse,  all 
the  material  of  the  neighbouring  trenches,  seemed  to  have  fallen. 
Many  German  dead  lay  here,  grey  and  bloody  amid  the  upturned 
earth.  By  itself  lay  the  body  of  a  British  soldier,  the  face  covered 
with  a  piece  of  white  tarpaulin.  Adrian  vaguely  wondered  how 
anyone  had  found  time  to  perform  that  act.  All  the  trivial  things 
of  life  lay  here — biscuit-tins,  scraps  of  food,  hand-mirrors,  ration- 
tins,  boots,  books  even.  And  everywhere  litter  of  equipment — 
black  shiny  German  helmets  with  the  golden  eagle  emblazoned 
on  the  front,  German  caps  and  accoutrements,  rifles,  clips  of  bul- 
lets, pistols,  weapons  of  all  kinds.  .  .  .  The  tradition  of  blood  and 
iron  seemed  to  have  found  its  consummation  in  that  one  place. 

Out  of  the  pit  they  clambered,  and  up  the  mound  beyond;  and 
then  along  a  kind  of  ridge.  A  small  river  or  large  ditch  of  stag- 
nant water  had  been  bridged  at  one  place  by  a  plank  which  had 
broken  down.  As  he  approached  this  a  high-explosive  shell  burst 
with  a  staggering  concussion  and  reek  of  gunpowder  on  the  farther 
bank.  Adrian's  inclination  was  to  throw  himself  flat,  but  it  was 
not  a  time  to  hesitate.  He  waded  through  the  greenish,  sulphur- 
streaked  water,  which  rose  to  the  level  of  his  chest ;  his  rifle,  clogged 
with  mud,  was  already  useless.  Then  he  came  upon  Orde.  Orde 
was  lying  back  in  the  arms  of  his  orderly,  his  face  yellow  and 
so  twisted  as  to  be  hardly  recognisable.  Adrian  threw  himself  on 
his  knees  beside  his  company-commander. 

"Cyril!"  he  shouted.  '"Cyril!" — the  guns  were  deafening— 
"where  are  you  hit?" 

"The  shell  got  him  full,"  the  orderly  said.  "I  fell  flat;  he 
went  right  on." 

Adrian  could  just  hear  Orde's  whisper: 

"It's  got  me — all  over  the  place.    Go  on  ...  and  good  luck!" 

He  made  a  feeble  gesture  as  though  to  urge  his  subaltern  for- 
ward. 

The  latter  obeyed  though  to  do  so  seemed  an  outrage  on  friend- 
ship and  the  humanities.  He  stumbled  across  a  ploughed  field 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  127 

heavy  with  recent  rains.  Men  were  falling  right  and  left.  Khaki 
heaps  dotted  the  open  ground  like  milestones.  Some  of  his  men 
had  got  slightly  ahead  in  the  race;  others  unwilling  to  face  the 
stream  of  bullets,  were  crawling  forward  on  knees  and  elbows.  Eric 
he  could  just  see  drop  down  into  a  slight  depression  in  front.  Here 
the  thin  line  began  to  re-form  itself,  everybody  wanting  breath. 

He  made  for  Eric.  A  number  of  men  of  various  regiments  and 
battalions  formed  an  increasingly  thick  firing-line  on  either  side 
of  them.  Through  the  mist  he  could  see  skeletons  of  trees  and 
the  tall  red-brick  chimney  of  the  Moulin  de  Pietre — their  objective. 

When  he  had  flung  himself  down,  it  took  several  moments  to 
recover  breath.  Then: 

"Cyril's  done  for." 

"Good  Lord!     Killed?" 

"Knocked  over  by  a  shell  a  couple  of  Hundred  yards  back.  What's 
to  be  done?" 

Eric  thought  a  moment. 

"I  suppose  I'd  better  take  charge,  as  I  was  second-in-command. 
We'll  have  to  rush  that  damned  mill.  Come  on !  Tell  your  chaps 
to  get  ready." 

Adrian  afterwards  recalled  how  naturally,  how  inevitably,  how 
unconsciously  indeed  in  that  moment  of  peril  he  had  accepted  the 
leadership  of  his  friend — reversal  of  their  old  relationship  though 
it  was.  He  crawled  along  to  where  some  of  his  own  platoon  were, 
lying. 

Bullets  were  humming  overhead  like  flocks  of  hurricane-driven 
birds ;  a  machine-gun  was  enfilading  from  some  vantage-point.  The 
Moulin  de  Pietre  was  evidently  a  formidable  nest  of  Germans. 

Both  realised  that  it  was  the  critical  moment. 

Eric's  voice  snapped  out  the  cautionary  words.  His  whistle 
blew.  .  .  . 

With  what  was  left  of  his  platoon  Adrian  started  forward.  He 
leapt  a  ditch.  Two  strands  of  barbed  wire  lay  in  his  path — all 
the  world  seemed  concentrated  in  those  two  obstinate  strands. 
Interminable,  intolerable  moments  passed.  Men  fell  against  the 
wire,  groaning,  lopsided,  and  were  riddled  with  bullets.  .  .  .  Him- 


128  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

self  was  violently  struck.  He  staggered.  He  shouted  out,  thinking 
that  some  concealed  enemy  had  hit  him  with  the  butt-end  of  a 
rifle.  He  felt  a  thudding  pain  in  his  right  thigh,  and  fell  backwards 
into  the  green,  brackish  water  of  the  ditch. 

Someone  dragged  him  out.    A  voice  said: 

"Are  you  hurt,  sir?" 

He  realised  that  he  was  wounded. 


§  3 

For  a  long  time  he  lay  on  his  face.  His  leg  ached  and  was 
limp  and  helpless.  Presently  it  lost  all  feeling.  He  heard  them 
pass  down  word  that  he  was  wounded;  he  wondered  what  had 
happened  to  Eric.  He  took  his  little  phial  of  iodine  from  his 
haversack  and  tried  to  reach  the  bullet-wound.  That  was  painful 
and  too  difficult. 

Most  of  those  lying  around  were  wounded.  Two  or  three 
dead  lay  near.  It  seemed  that  the  line  of  advancing  men,  mown 
down  here,  would  get  no  further. 

Then  he  saw  Eric  coming  to  him.  He  came  over  the  top  of 
the  ground  without  haste,  and  knelt  on  one  knee  as  Adrian  himself 
had  done  beside  Orde. 

"Where  is  it?    Thigh?    Keep  still  and  let's  have  a  look." 

"Lie  down,  Eric,  for  God's  sake,  or  you'll  get  a  bullet  through 
the  head!" 

"Lie  down,  sir!  Lie  down!"  voices  shouted  from  all  sides. 
"They  can  see  you!" 

"All  right!  All  right!  I  know  what  I'm  doing.  Now 
then " 

He  slit  the  coarse  khaki  material  with  his  clasp-knife,  examined 
the  tiny  punctured  wound  and  applied  a  phial  of  iodine.  He 
then  began  carefully  to  bind  up  the  wound. 

Shrapnel  burst  low  with  a  shattering  crash.  Eric's  hands  grad- 
ually ceased  in  their  task;  he  sank  very  slowly  backward.  As  he 
did  so,  he  clasped  the  back  of  his  head  with  fingers  through  which 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  129 

blood  trickled.     In  his  own  helpless  state  Adrian  could  not  raise 
himself  sufficiently  to  reach  his  friend. 

Eric  rolled  gently  over  on  his  face  and  lay  still.  A  spasm  of 
fear  amounting  almost  to  certainty,  shot  through  Adrian's  mind. 
Eric  was  dead !  He  shouted  for  help.  The  groans  of  the  wounded 
answered.  Through  the  other's  clasped  fingers  blood  continued 
to  ooze. 


§4 

A  kind  of  ghastly  stagnation  descended  upon  the  battlefield. 
Through  the  smoke  and  the  mist  and  the  noise  the  tall,  red-brick 
chimney  continued  to  stare  down  at  them  with  maddening  serenity. 
An  unceasing  stream  of  bullets  came  from  it,  but  bullets  also 
came  from  their  right  flank  and  even  from  their  right  rear.  A 
machine-gun  enfiladed  them  with  a  monotonous  "clack-clack-clack" 
at  regular  intervals.  Regular  as  a  heart's  beat,  minute  by  minute, 
came  the  wail  of  high-explosive  shells.  These  skimmed  their  heads, 
bursting  every  time  a  few  yards  behind.  Bits  of  iron  hummed 
through  the  air  and  hit  the  ground  on  either  side,  hissing 
hot.  Showers  of  earth  and  stones  fell  upon  the  back  and  neck. 
The  earth  around  was  soon  tainted  a  yellowish-green.  Hands  and 
uniforms  assumed  the  same  colour.  Adrian  silently  prayed  for 
the  end. 

Then  to  his  unspeakable  relief,  Eric  raised  his  head  and  looked 
round.  His  face,  papery-white  and  smeared  with  earth  and  blood, 
was  indescribably  shocking.  Adrian  had  never  conceived  of  his 
friend  so.  The  first  thing  the  company-commander  did  was  to 
drink  from  his  flask.  He  then  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  pro- 
ceeded to  roll  it  into  a  bandage. 

"Gurr-r-,"  he  sputtered.    "Are  you  there,  Adrian?" 
"Yes.  .  .  .  Thank  the  Lord!     I  thought  you  were  done  in." 
"I've  got  a  bit  of  shrapnel  in  the  back  of  the  head.    How  difficult 
it  all  is!     I  must  have  fainted  or  something" 
"Keep  still,  or  you'll  faint  again !" 


i3o  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  minute — if  only — I  can — blast  it! — get 
this  bandage  fixed." 

"What's  to  be  done?" 

"Oh!  hang  on  here  and  dig  in.  You  and  the  other  cripples 
had  better  make  your  way  back.  Wait  till  the  shelling  slacks  off 
a  bit,  though." 

"What  about  you?" 

"I've  only  got  a  scratch.  You've  got  a  leg.  If  you  can  crawl — 
crawl." 

"Plenty  of  time  when  you  go." 

"Don't  be  an  ass'!    If  you  can  crawl — crawl." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  tell  you  to." 

"I  can  still  shoot." 

"Yes,  but  you  can't  run.  Frankly,  you'll  be  quite  dreadfully 
in  the  way.  Go — quit — hop  it,  there's  a  good  boy!" 

But  the  moment  had  not  yet  come.  There  had  been  a  brief  pause 
in  the  racket  of  shelling.  Now  it  began  again  with  redoubled  fury 
— the  whistle  and  roar,  the  ear-splitting  crash,  the  sulphur  reek, 
the  showers  of  earth  and  stones.  Behind,  in  front,  the  clamour  of 
the  guns  never  paused.  Boom — boom — boom — boom !  A  German 
field  battery  was  firing  salvoes  at  short  range,  and  Adrian  thought 
the  four  clockwork  piercing  reports  at  intervals  would  drive  him 
crazy.  Bang — bang — bang — bang.  Away  to  the  right  lyddite  was 
bursting  in  clouds  of  sulphuric  smoke  amid  the  ruins  of  Neuvc 
Chapelle.  An  aeroplane  sailed  overhead.  He  longed  to  be  in  it,  to 
be  at  least  above  all  this,  with  one  turn  of  a  lever  to  sail  back  and 
in  a  few  moments  leave  behind  the  fumes  and  the  flames  and  the 
noise.  Shrapnel  crackled  low,  enormous  high-explosive  shells  burst 
a  short  distance  away,  throwing  up  fountains  of  earth  amid  billow- 
ing black  smoke.  Rifles  spat  at  intervals,  more  often  a  machine-gun 
swept  round.  The  boom — boom — boom — boom  of  the  German 
field-battery  went  on.  Once  or  twice  only  in  those  weary  hours 
was  there  a  minute's  complete  silence — like  the  pause  that  now  and 
then  falls  upon  an  animated  conversation — and  then  they  could 
hear  a  lark  sing. 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  131 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  opportunity  for  reorganization  came. 
Guns  and  men  seemed  to  have  grown  weary  of  killing;  at  least  to 
have  grown  weary  of  shooting  at  that  which  they  could  not  see. 
Eric  gave  the  word  to  dig  in,  and  those  who  could  began  working 
feverishly  with  their  entrenching-tools.  A  medical  officer  and  two 
stretcher-bearers  came  up  over  the  open  and  set  to  tending  the 
more  desperately  wounded.  Eric  passed  the  word: 

"All  wounded  to  the  rear !" 

He  turned  to  his  subordinate. 

"Now  be  off— and  good  luck!" 

That  tone  of  admonition  admitted  no  dispute;  and  with  a  heart 
heavy  for  his  friend,  Adrian  started  to  crawl  back  aided  by  both 
elbows  and  one  foot.  Half-way  across  the  ploughed  field  the  shell- 
ing began  again.  He  now  found  himself  in  the  centre  of  the  shell- 
area,  of  which  the  firing-line  was  slightly  in  advance.  5-9  mcn  shells, 
that  tore  through  the  air  with  a  mild  whistle,  finishing  up  with  a 
roar  like  high-power  machinery,  seemed  to  burst  on  top  of  him. 
Shrapnel  exploded  above  his  head  in  a  series  of  ear-splitting  crashes. 
A  high  velocity  shell  arrived  like  a  bullet  simultaneously  with  the 
report  of  the  gun.  He  crept  into  a  shell-hole  and  lay  flat.  It 
reeked  of  lyddite  and  contained  a  German  pistol  of  curious  shape, 
bearing  a  Birmingham  trade  mark.  He  could  see  the  blue  sky 
above  flecked  with  fleecy  white  puffs  of  aerial  shrapnel.  At  inter- 
vals between  the  booming  and  banging  of  the  guns,  the  detonation 
of  the  bursting  shells,  and  the  incessant  metallic  clatter  of  machine- 
guns  behind,  he  could  hear  the  droning  hum  of  aeroplanes.  Death 
from  above,  from  before,  from  behind,  death,  shapeless  and  re- 
pulsive, in  every  shell-hole;  death  usurping,  beckoning,  tyrannical. 
Terror  seized  him,  such  terror  as  he  had  never  known  in  his  life 
before.  Hitherto  he  had  been  conscious  only  of  the  profound 
unpleasantness  of  the  whole  business;  now  it  was  all  he  could  to 
do  to  prevent  himself  from  yelling  hysterically. 

A  head  appeared  above  the  rim  of  a  shell-hole. 

"Ye'd  better  give  me  yer-r  pack,  zur-r.  Ye'll  never  be  able  to 
get  on  with  it  as  y'are." 

He  blessed  the  sound  of  a  human  voice.    And  there  was  some? 


i32  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

thing  familiar  about  this  voice — something  inexplicably  friendly: 
— not  the  voice  but  the  accent.  He  recognised  it  as  a  West  Coun- 
try accent.  And  with  that  came  a  second's  vision  of  the  hills  behind 
his  home  as  they  would  look  in  the  bright  March  sunlight,  the 
white  chalk  horse  on  Stane's  steep  side,  the  silent  spaces  ,of  the 
down-land  beyond. 

He  yielded  his  pack  gladly  to  those  large,  willing  hands. 

Slow  as  his  progress  was,  and  often  as  he  stopped  for  breath  in 
shell-holes,  he  came  at  last  within  sight  of  the  white,  irregular 
sandbags  which  marked  the  old  German  second-line.  The  stream 
through  which  he  had  waded  during  the  advance  lay  between,  with 
one  visible  means  of  crossing — a  single  greasy  plank,  across  which 
lay  a  dead  soldier.  He  poised  himself  on  the  plank  straddlewise, 
bullets  hitting  the  sandbags  on  either  side.  Several  times  he  came 
near  to  falling  off  sideways,  but  recovered.  Reaching  the  boots 
of  the  dead  man,  with  extraordinary  repulsion  he  dragged  himself 
across  the  stiff,  unnatural  figure,  whose  dark  blood  was  dripping 
slowly  from  a  bullet-wound  in  the  neck.  He  felt  the  cold  blood 
moist  on  his  hands,  and  brushed  over  the  soft,  clammy  face,  so 
unlifelike — a  mere  heap  of  flesh.  He  saw  a  head  looking  over  the 
breastwork. 

"Come  on,  sir!    Pull  yourself  up !    Here's  a  hand !" 

With  the  assistance  of  the  arm  extended  he  dragged  himself  over 
the  heap  of  sandbags  and  found — his  own  stretcher-bearers. 

Near  to  fainting  now,  he  knew  little  more  until  he  felt  the 
swaying,  jogging  motion  of  a  stretcher  as  they  carried  him  along 
a  road  which  he  did  not  recognise.  But  he  saw  the  battlefield 
receding,  the  setting  sun,  dead  horses  and  dead  men,  a  tableau  of 
khaki — and  one  German — in  an  orchard,  as  though  all  had  there 
lain  down  to  sleep.  Then  he  heard  the  purring  of  a  motor,  and 
was  hoisted  out  of  daylight  into  the  gloom  of  an  ambulance's  in- 
terior. Almost  before  he  realised  where  he  was  the  vehicle  had 
started,  with  a  jarring  of  brakes — full-speed  ahead.  The  journey 
seemed  a  long  one.  At  first  he  thought  he  heard  shells  bursting; 
then  the  sound  of  traffic.  His  companions  were  noisy.  One 
groaned  loudly  and  ceaselessly.  Another,  with  a  pronounced  Irish 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  133 

accent,  poured  forth  volleys  of  blasphemy,  proclaiming  that  he  had 
"done  in"  at  least  half-a-dozen  Fritzes.  A  third  whistled  "Tip- 
perary." 

Beside  him  lay  an  officer  without  sound  or  movement. 

With  no  noticeable  transition  he  found  himself  lying  on  a  bed 
in  a  large  whitewashed  room  which  looked  out  upon  a  courtyard. 
Something  about  the  place  told  him  that  it  was  either  a  convent 
or  a  school.  Once  a  young  doctor  came  in,  looked  at  his  wound, 
gave  him  an  anti-tetanus  injection,  and  tied  a  white  label  on  his 
chest.  Once  an  orderly  brought  him  a  bowl  of  soup.  Lying  very 
still,  he  watched  evening  steal  into  the  courtyard  and  saw  the 
sunlight  fade  on  a  red-brick  wall.  He  heard  the  twittering  of 
sparrows  without,  ivy  leaves  rustling  against  the  window-ledge, 
and  at  infrequent  intervals  a  moan  from  the  next  bed. 

In  the  failing  light  the  door  opened,  and  there  slipped  in  a  gaunt 
figure  in  a  cassock,  who,  after  glancing  at  him  and  doubtless  think- 
ing him  asleep,  turned  to  his  neighbour.  It  gazed  long  and  ear- 
nestly, made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  then  went  out  silently  as  it  had 
come. 

Adrian  peered  at  the  adjacent  bed.  It  was  growing  dark,  but 
a  last  sunbeam  lit  up  the  pillow,  illuminating  features  that  were 
familiar  and  yet  strange.  Blood  had  gone  from  them,  their  fulness 
being  drawn  into  thin,  ugly  lines  by  pain.  It  was  only  at  the 
second  or  third  look  that  he  realised  Pemberton  lay  there. 


CHAPTER  II 
Adrian  and  Eric 


WITH  the  coming  of  night  and  the  lighting  of  the  oil  lamps,  Adrian 
noticed  figures,  diagrams,  and  queer  elemental  series  of  pictures  of 
birds  and  animals  on  the  walls.  He  must  have  slept;  it  was  not 
the  room  he  had  been  in  before.  Beds  were  set  at  ordered  intervals 
round  the  room,  each  covered  with  a  blue-and-red  Army  blanket, 
and  every  one  occupied.  In  the  centre  a  number  of  stretchers  lay 
side  by  side  upon  the  floor,  and  every  one  occupied.  Red  Cross 
orderlies,  doctors,  and  a  nurse  in  army  uniform,  grey  faced  with 
red,  hurried  in  and  out  ;  stretchers  were  constantly  being  carried  in 
with  much  trampling  of  hob-nailed  boots.  A  sound  of  motors 
came  through  the  open  door. 

"Oh-oh!    Yah-ah-ah!    Oh-h-h-h!" 

Groans,  cries,  and  moans  accompanied  him  through  the  night. 
Now  and  then,  from  the  neighbouring  bed,  came  a  half-moan,  half- 
sigh  which  voiced  something  that  expressed  itself  also  in  the  spas- 
modic contortions  of  Pemberton's  face.  For  the  rest,  there  were 
loud  cries,  cries  more  pathetic  in  their  helplessness  than  those  of 
children  in  pain,  petulant  queries,  calls  for  water  or  attention, 
deep,  full  groans,  heavy,  effortful  breathing  of  men  trying  to  stifle 
their  suffering;  then  again  the  clatter  of  nailed  boots  and  the  sub- 
dued conversation  of  those  who  could  converse. 

Amid  the  shattered  limbs,  the  mutilated  heads  and  faces,  the 
patient,  weary  eyes,  the  low  moaning,  hard  breathing  and  sighing, 
the  unearthly  quiet  of  approaching  death,  the  white,  bloodstained 
bandages,  the  ragged  uniforms  and  almost  unrecognisable  figures 
of  men  who  looked  like  bundles  of  old  clothes  —  beneath  the  yellow, 
sickly  light  of  the  oil-lamps  —  the  army  surgeon  made  his  way. 

He  was  a  dark-haired  young  man,  wearing  pince-nez,  and  was 

134 


ADRIAN  AND  ERIC  135 

followed  by  a  sergeant,  who,  ledger  and  stylographic  pen  in  hand, 
wrote  down  diagnoses  of  the  wounds  with  businesslike  precision. 

The  surgeon  came  to  Pemberton  first,  looked  long  at  his  face, 
felt  his  pulse,  and  with  a  shake  of  the  head  murmured,  "Touch  and 
go,  touch  and  go." 

Then  it  was  Adrian's  turn.     His  inspection  was  of  the  briefest. 

"Nothing  serious.  Slight  fracture,  laceration  of  the  tissues. 
You'll  be  laid  up  for  two  or  three  months.  Next  convoy  for  Eng- 
land!" 

He  passed  on. 

Adrian  could  hear  the  name  and  diagnosis  of  each  case  called 
out  in  turn.  After  two  or  three  such  he  began  to  doze.  But  he 
soon  awoke. 

"Lieutenant  Sinclair!" 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  Bit  of  shrapnel  in  the 
head.  Any  concussion?" 

"No." 

"Sickness  or  dizziness?" 

"No." 

"Take  care  of  it  in  England.  .  .  .  Next  one!" 

Adrian  looked. 

"Eric!" 

"Hullo!"    The  reply  came  from  a  stretcher  on  the  floor. 

"I'm  here!" 

"Who's  you?" 

"Adrian!" 

"Cheers!    I'll  get  them  to  carry  me  over  to  you." 

"And  how  the  devil  did  you  get  here?"  Adrian  demanded  when 
carrying  was  accomplished. 

"God  knows!  I  suppose  I  must  have  'gone  off'  again.  I  just 
woke  up  and  found  myself  here." 

Owing  to  the  bandages  about  his  head,  Eric  had  some  difficulty 
in  articulating. 

"So  we're  on  our  way  back  to  England."  Adrian  suggested. 
"I  don't  mind  telling  you  I  feel  all  chawed  up.  I  expected  some- 
thing pretty  bad,  but — it  was  worse."  There  was  some  emotion  in 


136  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

his  voice.  "I  feel  as  if  I'd  been  turned  inside-out — and  left  ex- 
posed to  view.  The  war's  no  joke,  you  know." 

A  sigh,  followed  by  a  deep  groan,  came  from  the  next  bed. 

"That's  Pemberton." 

"Ah!" 

"I  think  he's  going  west,  Eric." 

"Poor  chap!  But  you'll  soon  get  over  feeling  queer  about  it. 
Going  through  a  battle's  like  having  an  operation  without  an  anaes- 
thetic." 

"I  wonder " 

Eric  yawned. 

"What  I  don't  like  is  leaving  the  sheep  without  a  shepherd. 
But  it  can't  be  helped." 

"The  company,  you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"What's  that  you've  got  there?" 

Eric,  after  much  fumbling,  produced  a  black-and-gold  em- 
blazoned object  from  the  pile  of  equipment  which  lay  beside  him 
on  the  stretcher. 

"A  Prussian  helmet.  The  fact  is — well — Faith  and  I  had  a 
bet  whether  I  should  get  one  or  not.  Give  it  her,  will  you — with 
my  love?" 

"Give  it  her  yourself." 

"Shan't  see  her,  my  dear  chap." 

"You'll  see  her  as  soon  as  I  shall." 

"No,  I'm  not  for  home." 

"But  the  doctor's  just  tied  an  'A'  label  on  you!" 

"Well — he'll  have  to  untie  it.  I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  fortnight. 
England,  home,  and  beauty  don't  appeal  to  me  just  yet.  War  is 
the  poor  man's  pastime,  you  know — and  the  despair  of  his  cred- 
itors." 

Adrian  suspected  this  reasoning.     But  he  only  said: 

"I'll  take  the  thing,  of  course,  if  you  like.  But — we  shall  prob- 
ably all  be  at  Arden  again  in  a  few  weeks." 

"I  doubt  it.  And  on  the  whole  you  needn't  say  anything  about 
me  at  all.  Just — give  it  her." 


ADRIAN  AND  ERIC  137 

Adrian  took  charge  of  the  helmet.  The  events  of  the  past 
twenty-four  hours  had  revealed  new  and  unexpected  lights  in  Eric; 
still,  he  felt  no  doubt  that  they  soon  would  meet  on  the  "other 
side." 

Then  his  friend  was  carried  away,  waving  a  hand.  The  evacua- 
tion had  begun,  and  the  stretcher-cases  on  the  floor  were  taken 
first. 

§  2 

It  was  a  calm  spring-like  morning  when  Adrian's  turn  came  to 
be  carried  out  across  a  courtyard,  under  an  archway  to  a  waiting 
motor-ambulance,  which  drove  rapidly  to  the  station.  The  sun 
shone  upon  Pemberton,  who  was  borne  out  next — his  features  a 
little  paler,  a  little  more  of  the  quality  of  marble  than  they  had 
been  the  night  before.  Pemberton  had  ceased  to  make  any  sound. 

The  flap  of  the  ambulance  was  not  lowered,  but  Adrian  had  a 
strong  sense  of  active  life  going  on  around.  He  knew  without 
seeing  that  a  number  of  people  were  standing  at  the  entrance  to  the 
clearing-station,  watching  the  wounded  being  carried  out;  and  as 
they  dashed  through  the  crooked  streets,  with  their  cobbled  paving- 
stones  and  red  and  blue  and  white  houses,  he  glimpsed  Staff  cars 
rushing  past,  officers  riding,  soldiers  in  English  khaki  and  French 
blue  swarming  on  the  footpaths,  parties  of  German  prisoners 
marching  by  under  escort.  When,  crossing  a  square,  they  passed 
the  Hotel  Normandie  and  turned  down  a  narrow  street,  he  recog- 
nised the  place  as  Merville.  The  hospital  train  stood  at  the  very 
platform  upon  which  he  had  detrained  one  bitter  night  barely  a 
couple  of  months  before. 

And  as  he  lay  in  the  long  car  on  a  well-hung,  comfortable  bed 
which  swayed  with  the  motion  of  the  train,  he  contrasted  his  pres- 
ent feelings  with  those  of  the  earlier  journey.  Then  the  unknown 
lay  before  him.  Now  it  stood  revealed:  the  ordeal  to  which  he 
had  so  long  looked  forward  was  past,  and  he  was  going  back  to 
England,  to  orderliness,  to  the  old  atmosphere,  the  old  distractions 
and  interests,  to — Rosemary? 


138  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

That  afternoon  was  a  thing  of  joy.  The  train  rolled  slowly  and 
lazily  on  its  journey  after  tEe  manner  of  such  trains.  He  cared 
nothing  for  its  dilatoriness,  but  watched,  with  a  sort  of  overful 
happiness,  the  flat  fields,  poplar-plumed  spinneys,  and  drab  farm- 
steads flit  past.  How  different  they  looked,  basking  in  the  first 
grateful  warmth  of  spring,  from  their  earlier  greyness  under  the 
frost  of  a  winter's  evening!  The  countryside  smiled  at  him,  the 
future  smiled  at  him,  and  in  the  primrose  beauty  of  the  budding 
year  he  read  a  smile  more  cheerful  than  any  of  these.  Physical  pain 
he  had  none.  He  could  not  move  his  right  leg;  on  the  other  hand 
it  caused  him  no  active  discomfort. 

And  as  the  atmosphere  of  the  battlefield  receded,  his  old  op- 
timism was  reborn  in  him.  He  refused  to  be  daunted  by  the  war 
— refused  to  surrender  his  youth,  his  hopes,  his  aspirations,  his 
ideals,  his  dreams  to  this  first  disillusioning.  He  refused  to  treat 
it  as  other  than  a  disagreeable  incident  in  an,  on  the  whole,  well- 
ordered  world. 

And  he  asked  himself — it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  do  so 
before — how  he  and  Eric  really  had  come  to  be  mixed  up  in  the 
business?  It  was  considered  suitable  at  this  period  of  the  war — 
at  any  rate,  public  policy — to  regard  the  young  volunteers  as  in 
some  sense  heroic.  But  in  respect  of  two  fairly  representative 
young  Englishmen,  he  asked  himself  whether  their  motives  in  join- 
ing the  Army  had  been  either  altruistic  or  patriotic,  or  whether 
they  were  not  in  point  of  actual  fact  purely  interested  and  personal  ? 
For  his  own  part  he  had  no  violent  antipathy  to  Germany  nor  any 
violent  enthusiasm  for  Belgium,  nor  any  peculiar  affection  for  the 
British  Empire  because  he  didn't  know  much  about  it.  Adventure, 
the  prospect  of  experience,  the  first  glamour  of  the  thing,  the 
natural  reaction  from  a  futile  existence  had  in  a  measure  attracted 
them  both.  Both  were  in  a  sense  disappointed,  or  disappointments 
who  had  somehow  to  justify  themselves.  And  in  his  own  case  there 
were  yet  more  personal  reasons. 

Always  in  the  end  his  mind  went  back  to  Rosemary.  True,  she 
had  passed  out  of  the  region  of  contact,  for  he  had  received  only 
half-a-dozen  notes  and  letters  from  her  since  leaving  England ;  yet 


ADRIAN  AND  ERIC  139 

that  was  natural.  She  could  not  have  had  his  address  for  some 
time.  Yorkshire  was  a  good  deal  further  away  than  London — 
posts  were  bad,  they  had  been  constantly  on  the  move,  and  in  any 
case  she  must  have  been  preoccupied  by  the  hospital  that  had  been 
established  at  Stavordale.  Lady  Cranford  would  see  to  that.  But 
now  his  face  turned  once  more  towards  England. 

There  was  that  in  the  young  man  which  demanded,  or  failingly, 
created  an  abstraction.  He  idealised  this  girl,  and,  so  far,  experi- 
ence of  the  war  had  had  the  effect  of  sharpening  this  idealising  or 
idolising  faculty.  She  was  the  antithesis  to  all  that;  she  breathed 
about  him  a  perfume  of  romance  in  a  world  of  crudest  reality. 

The  spring  entered  his  blood.  Everywhere  signs  of  it — prim- 
roses and  crocuses  on  the  banks  of  the  cuttings,  aconites  sprinkling 
little  woods,  green  shoots  of  wheat  pushing  up  in  the  'fields,  a 
quickening  life  in  the  hedgerows,  and  among  the  tree-tops.  Spring, 
too,  in  the  swift  breeze  that  rushed  past  the  train.  He  longed  to 
be  out  in  it,  remembering  how  quietly,  delicately,  as  it  were  on  tip- 
toe, it  came  to  his  West  Country  home — the  grassy  dell  aflame 
with  daffodils,  blackthorn  snowing  the  hedgerows,  the  cawing  rooks 
rebuilding  their  nests  in  the  parkside  elms.  These  were  the  old 
familiar  signs. 

And  when  summer  came  .  .  .    ? 

Hope  surged  roughly  in  his  heart. 

§  3 

A  slight  rustle  at  his  left  hand  caused  him  to  turn  over. 

A  nurse  was  looking  down  at  Pemberton  with  an  odd,  solemn 
expression  on  her  face. 

Through  the  window,  tossed-up  sand-dunes,  pines,  and  the  blue 
dimpling  waters  of  the  Channel.  .  .  . 

He  stared  for  a  full  second  into  Pemberton's  eyes  before  the 
nurse  drew  the  sheet  over  them. 

Something  went  out  of  him  then:  his  whole  theory,  perhaps — 
of  black-striped  kid  gloves.  His  Grand  Illusion  crumbled ;  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  saw — face  to  face. 


CHAPTER  III 
Fortune's  Wheel 


EARLY  in  April  Sir  Charles  Knoyle  died.  He  died  of  double  pneu- 
monia following  upon  the  chronic  bronchitis  which  had  troubled 
him  regularly  for  many  winters.  At  the  age  of  sixty-five  it  finished 
him  off. 

Adrian  heard  the  news  from  Mrs.  Ralph  Clinton  in  whose  hos- 
pital he  was  near  Bury  St.  Edmunds.  Mrs.  Clinton  was  one  of 
Lady  Knoyle's  particular  friends.  A  tall,  handsome  woman,  with 
an  efficient  manner,  she  came  to  him  one  morning  as  he  lay  in  bed 
looking  out  upon  the  cedar-shaded  lawns — it  was  nearly  a  week 
after  an  operation  had  been  performed  upon  his  thigh — and  handed 
him  a  telegram. 

"Father  died  this  morning — Mother." 

In  this  moment  he  realised  that  the  often  crotchety  and  increas- 
ingly decrepit  and  of  late  rather  pathetic  figure  of  his  father — that 
figure  which,  unknowing,  he  had  seen  for  the  last  time  on  the 
departure  platform  at  Waterloo  Station  three  months  before — had 
vanished  for  ever.  The  real  pathos  of  it  for  him  was  that  he  felt 
inadequate  before  the  death  of  this  father,  whom  he  had  never 
loved  so  much  as  respected;  whom  he  had  never  intimately  known, 
and  who  had  never  intimately  known  him. 

The  personal  shock  he  experienced  was  in  no  sense  comparable 
to  that  which  he  had  experienced  when  Pemberton  had  died  beside 
him.  That  impression,  that  first  familiar  rencontre  with  death, 
remained  vividly.  It  obliterated  every  other.  Pemberton  in  life 
had  meant  little  to  him,  but  they  had  undergone  the  same  trials,  had 
passed  through  the  same  series  of  emotions  and  the  same  initiation 

— had  shared  in  fact  a  great  common  experience. 

140 


FORTUNE'S  W HEEL  141 

And  so  he  thought  more  often  of  Pemberton  than  of  his  father. 

The  real  though  impalpable  change,  the  central  fact,  was  that 
through  Pemberton  death  had  become  familiar,  instead  of  remote, 
incredible — a  thing  that  might  concern  the  old  but  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  young.  His  mind  reacted  quickly  to  experience ; 
could  it  be  staggered  by  anything  of  this  sort  any  more? 

By  the  second  post  upon  that  same  day  came  a  letter  from  Eric. 
The  moment  Adrian  saw  the  envelope  he  knew  Eric  had  had  his 
way.  The  envelope  was  franked  and  bore  the  battalion  stamp. 
How  the  devil  had  the  fellow  managed  it?  The  letter  explained 
itself: 

"I  was  sent  to  R ,  where  I  got  round  the  Medical  Officer 

after  being  X-rayed  and  found  to  be  unconcussed.  To  make  sure, 
I  tipped  the  R.A.M.C.  sergeant  20  francs.  My  'wound'  was 
nothing,  and  healed  practically  after  three  weeks,  but  they  insisted 
on  keeping  me  an  extra  week.  So  here  I  am,  and  you  were  wrong ! 
...  I've  got  the  company.  This  will  seem  to  you  extraordinary, 
and  I  can't  altogether  make  it  out  myself,  as  there  are  plenty  of 
people"  senior,  but  there  it  is!  It  certainly  makes  life  more  in- 
teresting, but  also  a  jolly  sight  more  strenuous.  ...  I  suppose 
you've  heard  about  poor  old  Cyril.  He's  in  hospital  in  Park  Lane. 
I'm  afraid  he's  a  goner.  Better  perhaps  if  they  had  done  him 
in " 

The  letter  contained  information  about  the  company  and  the 
men  and  the  line  they  were  about  to  take  over.  It  even  hinted  at 
an  impending  attack.  It  was  an  ordinary  letter,  but,  reading  and 
re-reading  it,  Adrian  apprehended  suddenly  the  man's  enthusiasm 
— and  his  courage. 

§2 

A  day  or  two  later  Lady  Knoyle  came  down,  escorted  by  her 
brother,  Sir  Patrick  Cullinan. 

Before  Adrian  was  permitted  to  see  his  mother  he  had  a  talk 


I42  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

with  Sir  Patrick,  who,  had  he  not  lately  come  of  age,  would  have 
been  his  guardian.  He  was  a  red-faced,  ginger-haired  Irishman 
with  a  hearty  manner  which  he  tried  creditably  to  subdue  in  defer- 
ence to  the  occasion. 

"You  must  have  had  a  bad  time,  old  chap.  Very  glad  to  see  you 
safe  home  again.  And  then  this — sad  affair.  A  terrible  loss  for 
you!  Poor  Charles!  Poor  old  Charles!" 

He  stared,  with  the  ill-worn  melancholy  of  a  robustly  cheerful 
person,  down  at  the  carpet. 

"Your  poor  dear  mother,  too.  What  a  terrible  time!  The 
long  illness  and  the  incessant  anxiety  about  yourself.  .  .  .  But  it's 
really  about  the  business  side  of  things  I  came  to  talk  to  you." 
His  features  brightened  in  spite  of  themselves,  his  voice  became 
more  naturally  loud.  "Of  course,  you  succeed  to  everything.  As, 
trustee,  under  your  father's  will,  I  went  into  it  all  with  old  Payne, 
the  family  man  of  business,  and  I'm  happy  to  say  we  found  matters 
in  a  better  way — a  much  better  way — than  either  he  or  I  expected." 

Sir  Patrick  paused  to  let  these  words  soak  in ;  he  lit  a  cigar. 

"You'll  be  comfortably  off.  Your  mother,  of  course,  has  the 
jointure  from  her  own  estate.  Your  father  was  always,  as  you 
know — at  any  rate,  in  his  later  years — a  careful  man.  You  know, 
too,  the  ambition  of  his  life — to  pay  off  the  mortgages  on  Stane. 
My  dear  boy,  I'm  glad  to  tell  you  that,  so  far  as  Payne  and  I  can 
see  and  unless  you  make  an  ass  of  yourself,  there's  every  chance  of 
that  ambition  being  realised." 

"At  the  termination  of  the  present  lease?" 

"The  lease  comes  to  an  end,  as  you  know,  on  December  3 1st, 
1918." 

"I  always  thought  we  hadn't  a  bob." 

"Your  father  saved.  He — er — invested  modestly — and  on  the 
whole  successfully.  He  doubled,  or  rather  nearly  trebled,  his 
capital.  He  reinvested.  Payne  and  I  knew  nothing  of  that.  Even 
your  mother  knew  nothing  of  it.  He  kept  you  short,  I  know- 
on  principle.  He  thought  young  men  ought  to  learn  to  economise 
— perhaps  he  was  afraid  of  your  following  the  example  of  your 
great-uncle  Algernon.  Ha!  ha!  ha!" — here  Sir  Patrick  laughed 


FORTUNE'S  WHEEL  143 

frankly  and  loudly,  as  though  at  some  insupportably  entertaining 
reminiscence — "anyway,  we  reckon,  as  far  as  we  can  judge  at  pres- 
ent, you  should  have  an  income  of  rather  less  than  five  thousand 
after  paying  off  death  duties,  and  providing  you  live  with  reasonable 
care  meanwhile.  Stane,  of  course,  brings  in  a  couple  of  thousand 
a  year  and  is  kept  up." 

Therewith  and  thereunto  the  uncle  went  into  a  number  of  par- 
ticulars— about  farms,  cottages,  legacies,  old  servants,  Lady  Knoyle's 
jointure,  duties  and  taxation.  Adrian  murmured  "Yes,"  "Exactly," 
and  "Oh!  quite,"  without  any  very  clear  idea  of  what  it  all 
amounted  to.  Towards  the  end  of  the  conversation  the  worthy 
gentleman,  abandoning  quite  his  avuncular  role,  became  jovial  and 
even  facetious.  He  wound  up  by  saying: 

"The  next  thing  is  to  get  you  through  this  damned  war.  Then 
you  must  find  a  wife  and  settle  down."  He  shot  a  smart  glance 
at  his  nephew.  "Meanwhile  nurse  that  thigh,  and  as  soon  as 
you're  fit  enough  come  over  to  us  in  Ireland  for  as  long  as  you 
can — we  can  give  you  a  bit  of  fishing,  at  any  rate." 

The  invitation  was  accepted.  Sir  Patrick  departed  impetuously, 
enjoining  upon  his  nephew  the  advisability  of  visiting  the  firm  of 
Payne,  Payne  &  Payne,  Solicitors,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  at  the  first 
convenient  opportunity,  and  leaving  as  a  legacy  a  large  box  of 
Corona  cigars. 

As  soon  as  Adrian  saw  his  mother  it  became  evident  to  him  that 
she  was  crushed  beneath  a  weight  of  grief  which  she  fought,  and  in 
part  subdued,  for  her  son's  sake.  Though  she  and  Sir  Charles  had 
married  late  in  life,  their  devotion  had  been  none  the  less  complete. 

"He  spoke  of  you  towards  the  end.  He  asked  after  you  re- 
peatedly, and  said  how  happy  he  was  to  know  you  were  safe.  That 
was  almost  the  last  time  he  spoke.  He  said  his  greatest  wish  was 
that  after  the  war  you  should  settle  down  at  Stane." 

Lady  Knoyle  completed  her  little  speech  without  faltering  though 
tears  coursed  down  her  cheeks  as  she  spoke. 

That  first  talk  (to  Adrian's  relief)  was  cut  short  by  evening 
dressings,  and  Lady  Knoyle  rarely '  referred  to  the  subject  again. 
She  could  not  do  so  without  emotion,  and  that,  as  she  well  knew, 


144  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

embarrassed  her  son.  And  she  was  there  to  superintend  his  con- 
valescence; she  was  there  to  enliven,  to  hearten  him.  Day  after 
day  she  would  flit  in  like  a  September  leaf  and  sit  by  his  bedside — 
or  by  his  wheeled-chair  out  in  the  garden — a  bent  and  fragile  figure, 
her  head  covered  with  a  black  lace  mantilla,  her  white  hair  strained 
back  from  a  forehead  and  face  that  bespoke  character,  some  sensi- 
tive or  artistic  perception,  and  was  still  not  devoid  of  the  beauty 
which  had  once  notably  been  hers.  She  had  a  gentle,  sympathetic 
way;  she  was  so  obviously  anxious  to  make  everybody  about  her 
happy,  even  if  she  could  not  be  happy  herself.  Thus  she  would  sit 
and  read  aloud  to  her  son  or  knit,  or  say  nothing,  or  suggest  and 
fetch  things  that  he  might  want.  Mrs.  Clinton  and  the  nurses  left 
them  together. 

Since  his  uncle's  visit  with  its  momentous  intelligence,  Adrian's 
thoughts  had  centred  more  and  more  upon  Rosemary.  And,  try 
as  he  would,  stifle  the  thought  as  he  might — and  honestly  did — he 
could  not  remain  oblivious  to  one  fact :  Fate  had  worked  amazingly 
in  his  behalf.  .  .  .  Fate?  But  after  all  this  much  could  be  said 
for  him,  that  on  receiving  Lady  Cranford's  coup  de  grace  via 
Rosemary  he  had  taken  destiny  firmly  in  his  hands — and  had  been 
rewarded.  Fortune  had  then  so  far  played  up  to  him,  had  so  far 
completed  his  task,  that  he  stood  before  the  world  no  longer  with- 
out a  profession,  no  longer  without  some  positive  achievement — the 
achievement,  at  all  events,  of  having  done  what  was  expected  of 
him — no  longer  without — prospects. 

And  yet  the  nearer  he  approached  fulfilment  in  these  respects, 
the  farther  away  Rosemary  seemed  to  drift.  There  was  the 
elusive  baffling  quality  in  her;  he  could  not — reach  out  to  her. 
Assure  and  reassure  himself  as  he  did  that  everything  was  all  right, 
he  realised  that  hers  would  not  be  as  plain-sailing  an  argosy  as,  for 
instance,  Faith's. 

Both  the  young  ladies  were  hotly  engaged  at  their  respective  hos- 
pitals. He  had  received  a  sympathetic  letter  from  each  on  being 
wounded,  another  on  his  father's  death.  Shortly  before  leaving 
Mrs.  Clinton's  establishment  he  heard  from  Rosemary — after  a 
fortnight's  silence — that  Lady  Cranford  had  decided  to  give  up  the 


FORTUNE'S  WHEEL  145 

hospital  at  Stavordale  finding  it  too  great  a  worry  and  expense — 
had  formed  the  intention  of  taking  a  flat  or  small  house  in  London 
"early  in  the  autumn."  In  London,  they  felt,  they  would  be  more 
in  the  middle  of  things.  And  that  seemed  necessary. 

The  young  man  was  well  satisfied  with  the  news.  Rightly  or 
wrongly,  he  interpreted  it  as  a  hint  from  Rosemary  herself  that  she 
realised  the  looked-for  moment  was  at  hand.  This  straightforward 
piece  of  information,  in  fact,  not  only  clarified  his  immediate  plans, 
but  stilled  absolutely  qualms  or  doubts  as  to  the  future. 


CHAPTER  IV 
The  Baptism  of  Pain 


BY  the  beginning  of  June  Adrian  Knoyle  was  sufficiently  recovered 
to  leave  hospital,  his  Medical  Board  having  awarded  him  ten  weeks' 
sick  leave  without  violent  exercise.  And  from  hospital  he  proceeded 
to  London,  en  route  for  Ireland,  where  at  the  Cullinans'  he  pur- 
posed indulging  in  a  couple  of  months*  fishing  amid  peaceful  sur- 
roundings. 

London  he  found  rank,  dusty,  full  of  khaki  and  clamour.  Every- 
where— the  war.  In  the  streets,  in  the  parks,  in  the  clubs,  in  the 
theatres  and  the  restaurants  (wThich  were  almost  too  crowded  to 
enter),  in  the  shops  and  the  railway  stations,  at  dinner  as  at  break- 
fast, in  the  day  and  the  dark — always  the  war.  A  sense  of  stale 
depression,  of  recrimination  and  misgiving,  of  morbid  foreboding, 
indeed,  seemed  to  harass  all.  It  was  not  the  London,  at  once  hope- 
ful and  vehemently  patriotic,  he  had  left  in  January.  That  had 
been  a  London  still  savouring  the  victories  of  the  Marne  and  of  the 
First  Battle  of  Ypres.  This  was  a  London  still  digesting  the 
defeats  of  Neuve  Chapelle  and  Festubert,  the  nightmare  of  the 
Second  Ypres  battle.  Men  shook  their  heads  about  the  Dardanelles. 
The  "shells  scandal,"  bringing  about  the  fall  of  the  Liberal  Cab- 
inet, had  shaken  their  faith  in  Government.  Adrian,  while  taking 
little  interest  in  politics,  reacted  instantly  to  this  depression.  Did 
he  not  know?  Had  he  not  seen  the  British  dead  lie  thick  at  Neuve 
Chapelle?  And  had  he  not  read  the  newspaper  accounts  thereafter 
in  which  it  was  said  the  German  fallen  lay  as  five  to  one?  .  .  . 
Well,  he  at  least  knew  the  fantastic  falsity  of  that  statement;  and 
he  could  read  the  same  story  between  the  lines  of  Eric's  carefully- 
worded  letters  after  Festubert.  He  at  least  recognised  how  far  the 

146 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  PAIN  147 

newspaper  public  was  being  misled,  how  far  the  newspapers  them- 
selves were  being  gagged,  if  not  hoodwinked. 

One  thing  above  all  depressed  him.  He  began  to  realise  what 
type  of  men  they  were  who  were  "getting  on  with  the  war." 

§    2 

The  very  first  thing  he  did  on  reaching  London  (after  changing 
into  plain  clothes)  was  to  visit  Cyril  Orde's  hospital  in  Park  Lane. 

He  found  his  late  company-commander  huddled  in  a  wheeled- 
chair  out  on  the  balcony;  it  was  a  sunny  afternoon. 

Yes,  that  stalwart  figure  had  shrunk — into  a  mere  bundle  of 
clothes.  And  Orde,  staring  out  over  the  greenish-blue  tree-tops  of 
the  Park,  did  not  see  Adrian  until  the  latter  uttered  his  name. 
Then  he  turned  abruptly,  as  though  glad  of  the  distraction,  and  a 
smile  lit  up  his  face. 

"Ah!  My  dear  Adrian — delighted  to  see  you!  Very  good  of 
you  to  come!  I  heard  you  were  leaving  hospital.  Sit  down  and 
tell  me  all  about  yourself." 

Adrian  took  a  chair  beside  him  and  was  shocked  by  the  changed 
expression  of  his  face,  so  much  thinner,  sadder.  It  was  the  eyes 
that  more  than  anything  altered  the  face.  No  longer  keen  and 
alert  as  of  old,  they  looked  tired — and  hopeless. 

Adrian,  indeed,  had  difficulty  in  keeping  emotion  out  of  his  voice 
and  face — he  who  a  few  days  before  had  reflected  that  the  war  could 
spring  no  more  or  greater  surprises  upon  him.  Orde  spoke,  how- 
ever, in  his  old  curt,  incisive  tones. 

"I  heard  you  were  hit  in  the  leg — or  thigh,  was  it  ?  But  I'm  glad 
to  see  you've  only  got  a  limp.  I'm,  as  you  observe,  a  crock.  No 
good  to  anybody  and  never  will  be  again.  Better  out  of  the  way 
altogether." 

"Don't  say  that,  Cyril.     Modern  surgery  works  wonders." 

"But  not  miracles.  .  .  .  I'm  paralysed,  you  know,  paralysed 
from  the  waist  downwards.  .  .  .  Oh,  well!  One'll  get  through 
the  days  somehow,  I  suppose — and  the  nights.  No  more  tennis, 
though!" 


148  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

He  laughed. 

Adrian  murmured  "Rotten  luck,"  and  tried  to  change  the  sub- 
ject. He  found  Orde's  laughter  rather  painful. 

"I  heard  from  Eric  the  other  day,"  he  said.  "You  know,  of 
course,  he  got  a  bit  of  shrapnel  in  that  show.  He's  back  with  the 
battalion  now." 

"Ah!  Eric.  Back  with  the  battalion,  is  he?"  Orde  repeated 
the  remark  slowly,  as  though  wishful  of  assimilating  the  informa- 
tion by  degrees.  "I  hope  he'll  take  care  of  himself.  A  good  boy, 
that." 

Orde  bit  a  toothpick  meditatively.    Adrian  said: 

"Lovely  view  you've  got  from  here." 

"Yes,  it's  nice  lookin'  over  the  Park." 

Then  after  a  pause: 

"Reminds  me  sometimes  of — do  you  remember? — that  week-end 
at  Arden  just  at  the  outbreak  of  war  .  .  .  where  we  all  met." 

Adrian  assented,  racking  his  brain  to  think  of  some  means  of 
keeping  the  conversation  off  that  topic  so  natural,  so  living  with 
recollections  alike  for  Orde  and  himself. 

But  it  seemed  as  though  the  other  was  determined  to  go  back 
to  it. 

"Yes — and    that    was    the    last   time    I    played    tennis,    wasn't 

.it ?" 

"Let's  see,"  Orde  went  on  after  a  pause,  "who  was  there? 
Yourself  and  Eric  and  all  the  Daventrys  and — oh,  yes!  that  old 
buffer  Freeman — and  that  appallin'  wife  of  his.  By  the  way, 
though,  have  you  heard  Freeman  is  to  be  one  of  our  war-winners? 
Freeman  is  to  be  a  Cabinet  Minister!" 

"God  forbid!" 

"My  dear  chap,  I  assure  you  .  .  .  this  is  the  kind  of  man  who 
gets  on — the  kind  of  man  who  has  all  the  stock  phrases  on  the  tip 
of  his  tongue — the  beetle-browed,  double-chinned  bureaucrat  who 
rolls  out  'so  far  as  present  information  indicates'  and  'our  future 
course  must  be  guided  by  circumstances' — and  fights  the  bloody  war 
with  words  while  we're  cannon-fodder  for  lack  of  shells.  Seems  to 
me  their  chief  qualification  for  winnin'  it  is  that  they  spend  half 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  PAIN  149 

their  lives  makin'  themselves  'useful'  to  whoever's  in  power,  and 
the  other  half  makin'  money." 

He  spoke  with  an  emphasis  surprising  in  one  usually  so  self- 
contained,  adding  presently: 

"If  one  even  felt  they  were  out  to  win  the  blessed  thing,  but 
they're  not,  my  dear  chap.  They're  out  to  save  their  faces,  to  stick 
to  office  or  get  office,  to  please  their  wives,  to  bamboozle  the  coun- 
try. .  .  .  They're  politicians  first,  last,  and  all  the  time.  The 
war's  a  secondary  thing;  the  political  game  is  the  one  consideration 
for  the  Freemans  and  all  the  Freeman  kind.  They  spin  webs  of 
words  while  the  country's  spinnin'  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss." 

And  after  a  further  pause: 

"Why  can't  they  leave  the  executive  side  to  the  soldiers  and 
sailors?  Why  can't  they  organise  shell  production  and  man-power 
at  home  instead  of  interferin'  with  the  generals  and  the  admirals 
at  the  front?  But  no — it's  words,  words,  words — and  officemen 
and  ex-lawyers  and  adventurers  dodgin'  and  schemin'  for  power  and 
place  and  kudos,  while  our  pals  get  killed.  .  .  .  And  they'll  white- 
wash 'emselves.  You  see,  they'll  come  out  on  top  in  the  end — and 
Festubert  and  Neuve  Chapelle  and  all  these  hellish  casualties  that 
might  have  been  halved — they'll  be  forgotten." 

There  was  bitterness  in  these  words.  Orde,  however,  soon  re- 
covered his  normal  dry  tones. 

"Talkin'  of  Arden,  though,  a  friend  of  yours  came  to  see  me 
the  other  day — that  pretty  gal  of  Lady  Cranford's.  I  must  say  I 
thought  it  devilish  nice  of  her — she's  so  like  her  mother  who  was  no 
end  of  a  beauty  in  her  time — and  she  brought  those  gorgeous  roses. 
Lady  C.  is  apparently  still  up  at  Stavordale  closin'  or  openin'  a 
hospital  or  somethin'.  She's  an  intelligent  sort  of  woman,  but  it's 
a  pity  she  lets  that  extremely  good-lookin'  daughter  run  about 
entirely  on  the  loose.  She  brought  along  a  chap  I  don't  care  for — 
that  black-eyed  cove  who  was  at  Arden — what's  his  name? — 
Topham,  or  Upham,  or  something?" 

Adrian  sat  up  straight  in  his  chair. 

Orde  went  quietly  on: 

"Who  do  you  think  is  nursin'  here — nursin'  me,  in  fact?    An- 


i5o  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

other  of  the  Arden  contingent— that  extremely  amiable  Miss 
Ingleby — do  you  remember  ?" 

As  though  in  response  to  his  remark  the  door  opened  and  Sister 
Ingleby  entered.  She  was  the  same  as  at  Arden  in  every  important 
particular — red-faced  and  rather  plump,  with  kind,  cheerful  eyes 
and  a  suggestion  of  bygone  good  looks  brought  out  of  a  cupboard. 
She  shook  hands  warmly  with  Adrian,  putting  the  conventional 
questions  that  the  war  inspired.  Then  she  turned  to  her  patient. 

"Captain  Orde,  there's  a  visitor  for  you — a  surprise!  Another 
beautiful  young  lady — and  more  roses !  Aren't  you  a  lucky  fellow  ? 
Will  you  see  her?" 

"Rather!     Show  her  up,  please — whoever  she  is." 

Sister  Ingleby  trotted  out. 

"Do  you  know,  Adrian,"  Orde  said  solemnly,  "that  woman's  an 
angel.  She  looks  after  me  like  a  wife  and  a  mother  and  a  sister,  all 
rolled  into  one.  Upon  my  soul,  if  I  wasn't  a  crock  for  life  I — I'd 
like  to  marry  her!" 

Adrian  had  risen  to  go,  though  his  curiosity  was  aroused  as  to 
the  identity  of  Orde's  visitor.  He  was  making  for  the  door  when 
Faith  Daventry  entered. 

She  looked  efficient  in  a  blue  serge  V.A.D.  uniform ;  it  suited  her. 

"Adrian/"  she  exclaimed.  "Well— what  luck!  I  am  glad  to 
see  you.  Ought  you  to  be  about  like  this,  though?  I  thought  you 
were  still  on  a  bed  of  sickness." 

They  went  over  to  Orde  and  she  shook  hands,  depositing  a  sheaf 
of  roses  on  the  table  by  his  wheeled-chair. 

"From  Arden,"  she  said,  "with  mother's  love  and  mine." 

Orde  thanked  her. 

"And  now  tell  me  all  about  yourselves,  poor  things."  She  turned 
to  Adrian.  "How  is  the  limb — really  I  mean?  Well,  you  mustn't 
think  you  can  run  about  on  it  yet,  you  know.  Why  didn't  you 
come  and  be  nursed  by  me?  'Some'  nurse,  let  me  tell  you.  But 
firm — oh !  very  firm.  I  stand  no  nonsense.  I  slap  the  ones  in  bed 
if  they're  tiresome,  and  the  others  quake  before  my  tongue.  You 
see,  I'm  Assistant  Commandant!" 

"I  didn't  know  you  took  in  officers,"  said  Orde. 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  PAIN  151 

"Well,  we  don't,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  Father  and  mother  have 
firmly  made  up  their  minds  that  'officers'  are  not  'nice.'  One 
might  think  they  were  a  sort  of  savage  alien  race,  what  ?  However, 
you  see,  we've  not  done  with  the  Victorian  Era.  But  of  course, 
with  old  friends  it's  different.  It  would  have  been  like  old  times, 
too,  having  you  both  there !" 

"It  does  seem  the  devil  of  a  time  since  that  week-end,"  Orde 
ruminated.  "I  can  hardly  believe  it  ever  happened — not  sure  it 
did,  in  fact.  Weren't  we  just  startin'  a  second  set  when  ...  or 
am  I  dreamin'?" 

He  had  stopped,  as  though  forcibly  recalling  himself  to  the 
present.  Sister  Ingleby  glanced  at  him,  and  from  him  meaningly 
to  Faith. 

"How  long  are  you  up  for?"  she  asked. 

"Alas!  only  till  this  evening.  This  evening  I  go  back  to  'the 
daily  round,  the  common  task' — not  that  it  is  really  so  very  com- 
mon. I  love  it.  I  never  could  have  believed  I  ever  could  have  liked 
nursing  and  housekeeping  and  things — before  the  war.  I  did  them, 
but  they  bored  me  stiff.  Do  you  know,  they  really  are  extraor- 
dinarily fascinating!  There's  a  sort  of  mysterious  attraction  about 
dressings  and  disinfectants  and  blanket-baths.  I  couldn't  analyse  it, 
but  there  it  is." 

"And  how  are  Lady  Arden  and  'his  lordship'  ?"  inquired  Adrian. 

"Oh,  mother  is  very  well.  She  wanders  about — she's  Com- 
mandant— I  do  the  work.  Can't  you  see  I'm  worn  to  a  skeleton 
of  my  former  self  ?  Look  at  my  hands !  Look  at  my  complexion ! 
Wouldn't  they  do  credit  to  a  kitchen-maid?  We're  all  so  ter- 
rifically and  tremendously  efficient,  you  see!  .  .  .As  for  father, 
he's  at  Clacton  with  his  Yeomanry,  playing  at  being  a  soldier  and 
damning  and  cursing  everybody  because  they  won't  let  him  go  to 
the  front.  Of  course,  they  won't!  But  we've  got  an  uncanny 
feeling  he'll  manage  it  somehow.  He's  so  determined,  so  absolutely 
mulish  about  some  things,  you  know.  He  never  comes  near  the 
hospital.  He  says  the  whole  thing  terrifies  him  and  he  can't  stand 
seeing  his  drawing-rooms  and  library  turned  into  dormitories.  So 
one  of  us  has  to  go  off  to  'classy  Clacton'  every  week-end." 


i52  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

Adrian  became  aware  of  a  duty  unfulfilled  while  Faith  was 
speaking.  He  thought  of  Eric's  Prussian  helmet.  How  should  he 
broach  the  subject  of  Eric,  in  fact?  Or  should  he?  Or  would  she? 
It  struck  him  as  a  little  strange  that  she  had  not  done  so  already, 
but  he  decided  that  it  would  be  tactless  to  mention  the  matter  in 
public.  He  would  wait  till  Faith  departed  and  leave  with  her. 
This  she  did  very  soon,  but  not  before  she  had  confirmed  Orde's 
news  about  the  Freemans. 

"Who  do  you  think  I  met  just  now — our  friend,  Lady  Freeman! 
Gertie!  She  was  arrayed  in  broad  black-and-white  stripes  and  a 
hat  that  looked  like  a  badly- folded  envelope — a  simple  creation  from 
Paris!  She  was  perspiring  profusely,  and  fell  on  my  neck.  And 
what  do  you  think?  Sir  Walter's  in  the  new  Government — 'got 
his  portfolio,'  she  called  it.  ...  He's  Minister  for  Something  or  to 
Somebody — I  don't  know  what.  She  was  radiant — she  was  tri- 
umphant— and  made  me  a  present  of  three  Cabinet  secrets  straight 
off  (under  promise  of  perfect  discretion) — but  I've  forgotten 
them." 

Orde  gave  a  groan. 

Faith  rose. 

"Good-bye,  children,"  she  said.  "I  must  be  going.  I've  to  catch 
the  4.30  train,  and  a  hundred  thousand  little  fussy  things  to  do 
before  then.  Au  revoir!" 

Adrian  joined  Faith  on  the  stairs.  They  were  shown  out  with 
smiles  by  "nice,  kind  Miss  Ingleby" — who  wanted  a  vocation. 


§3 

As  they  walked  down  Park  Lane,  Faith  said: 

"And  how  did  you  leave  dear  old  Eric?"  The  question  came 
casually  enough. 

"Slightly  damaged  but  cheerful.  He  had  a  bit  of  shrapnel  in 
the  head  and  was  stoutly  refusing  to  be  sent  home.  But  that  was 
three  months  ago.  He  went  back  to  the  battalion  within  a  month." 

"Yes,  I  heard  from  him  the  other  day."    There  was  a  pause  and 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  PAIN  153 

a  note  of  concern  in  her  voice  when  she  spoke  again.  "But  why — 
why  didn't  he  come  home?" 

How  should  he  answer  the  question  ?  Why  had  Eric  refused  to 
be  sent  home?  He  simply  didn't  know.  He  said  he  supposed  the 
doctors  thought  it  was  not  a  bad  enough  case. 

"Faith,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  taking  her  arm  as  they  walked, 
"you  may  not  have  realised  it — I  confess  I  never  did  before  Neuve 
Chapelle — but  Eric  is  what  they  call  a  'stout  fellow/  It's  a  com- 
pliment. He  is  the  youngest  company-commander  in  our  regiment 
— if  that  conveys  anything  to  you.  He's  quite  distressingly  brave 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  .  .  .  War  is  a  funny  business.  It's  always 
springing  surprises  on  you.  Eric's  one  of  them." 

Silence  followed.    They  turned  into  the  Park  at  Stanhope  Gate. 

"And,  by  the  way,"  he  said  presently,  "I've  got  something  for 
you — a  Prussian  helmet." 

She  did  not  mistake  that.  She  coloured.  A  look  of  understand- 
ing came  into  her  eyes  and — more  than  understanding. 

"I  see,  Adrian,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  knew  then  that  he  had  done  a  good  thing — and  was  glad. 
Yet  something  remained  unsatisfied.  Of  one  person  Faith  had  not 
spoken.  He  wanted  her  to  speak.  But  she  had  offered  no  remark, 
public  or  private,  upon  a  subject  which  she  well  knew  meant  every- 
thing to  him.  Should  he  speak?  He  hesitated.  The  right  word 
would  not  come. 

They  strolled  as  far  as  the  bandstand,  then  turned  back  to  Hyde 
Park  Corner  and  stopped  under  the  clock.  Faith  seemed  preoccu- 
pied ;  a  dead  cold  constraint  settled  upon  Adrian.  What  had  Orde 
meant  about — Rosemary  and  Upton?  As  Faith  was  in  the  very 
act  of  taking  her  leave  he  blurted  out : 

"By  the  way,  what  about  Rosie?  Have  you  seen  anything  of 
her?" 

It  was  a  poor  attempt  at  off-handedness.  Faith  replied  with  an 
embarrassment  she  was  far  too  ingenuous  to  conceal: 

"I  saw  her  some  time  in  March,  dining  at  the  Astoria  with  Gina 
Maryon  and — some  people.  They  were  just  going  on  to  Giro's  to 
dance." 


154  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

"Anybody  I  know?" 

"Oh! — two  young  men." 

He  did  not  put  the  question  that  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

"How  was  she?" 

"She  seemed — lively.  .  .  .  but  I  must  run." 

They  shook  hands  and  went  their  ways. 


§  4 

Adrian's  took  him  across  St.  James's  Park — he  avoided  Piccadilly 
— en  route  for  the  offices  of  Payne,  Payne  &  Payne,  solicitors, 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  He  wanted  to  be  alone.  He  felt  confused 
and  wanted  a  respite  in  which  to  pull  himself  together. 

He  strode  on,  noticing  neither  the  dirty  children,  the  bits  of 
newspaper  blown  about  by  the  wind,  the  orange-peel  and  banana- 
skins,  the  squalid  couples  on  seats,  nor  the  dreary  men  and  women 
lying  about  on  the  grass — all  that  sordid  aspect  of  summer  London 
which  usually  depressed  him  beyond  words. 

He  thought  only  of  Rosemary  and  the  information  which  Orde 
had  imparted  and  which  Faith's  reticence  had  corroborated — in 
fact  magnified — to  his  suddenly  inflamed  mind. 

One  thing  was  certain.  There  had  been  deception.  And  that 
was  a  wound  in  itself. 

And  then  this — yes — this  reappearing,  disquieting  figure  of 
Upton.  .  .  .  His  mind  travelled  back  to  the  Rodriguez'  ball  when 
he  had  first  seen  the  two  together,  beyond  that  to  the  afternoon  at 
Ascot,  and  so  to  the  evening  at  Arden  when  by  chance  he  had  over" 
heard  their  "Goodnight,  Harry,"  "Goodnight,  Rosemary.  Dormez 
bien!" 

In  a  letter  from  Rosemary  written  about  the  middle  of  March 
which  he  remembered  receiving  much  later  at  Mrs.  Clinton's  hos- 
pital, she  had  said  nothing  about  Upton,  nothing  about  a  dinner- 
party at  the  Astoria,  nothing  about  stopping  in  London  or  seeing 
Gina.  At  the  most  she  gave  the  impression  of  having  rushed  down 
to  London  to  do  some  shopping  and  rushed  back  to  Stavordale 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  PAIN  155 

because  of  the  strenuous  demands  made  upon  her  by  the  hospital. 
She  had  not  exactly  given  the  lie  to  what  he  now  heard;  merely 
the  impression  left  on  his  mind  was  entirely  different. 

And  one  other  fact  pierced  him.  Rosemary  must  have  received 
his  letter  written  a  few  days  before  Neuve  Chapelle,  conveying 
clearly  that  he  was  about  to  go  into  action— she  must  have  read  the 
accounts  of  the  battle — she  may  well  have  known  (for  it  was 
early  published  in  the  newspapers)  that  he  had  been  wounded.  At 
that  very  moment  she  was  dining  in  gay  company  at  the  Astoria, 
going  on  to  dance.  .  .  .  Egotistical  it  was  of  him  perhaps,  and 
unreasonable — but  he  cared. 

Was  he  jealous?  He  did  not  excuse  the  fact  or  deny  it  or 
attempt  to  call  it  by  any  other  name.  There  it  was.  He  felt  a 
dislike  of  Upton  transcending  any  dislike  he  had  felt  of  anybody 
or  anything  before.  .  .  .  For  the  rest — he  did  not  know.  Whether 
he  had  the  right  to  resent  Rosemary's  apparent  callousness,  whether 
Rosemary  really  owed  him  anything  of  consideration  or  anxiety  or 
interest,  whether  he  had  the  right  to  expect  her  to  deny  herself  the 
most  trifling  pleasure  or  amusement  on  his  account — he  did  not, 
in  his  then  condition,  could  not,  judge.  He  only  knew  the  fact  as 
a  fact;  that  it  hurt  him  more  than  anything  had  ever  hurt  him 
before — that  his  belief  in  Rosemary  simply  could  not  be  the  same 
again.  .  .  . 

As  he  neared  the  Lake,  mocking  cries  came  to  his  ears,  reminding 
him  of  that  Arden,  where  he  had  first  so  greatly  loved. 


CHAPTER  V 
A  Duel  a  Trois 


ADRIAN  KNOYLE  returned  from  Ireland  in  the  first  week  of 
August.  His  first  care  was  to  visit  his  father's  grave  in  Kensal 
Green  Cemetery.  And  he  was  almost  immediately  summoned  to 
attend  his  second  Medical  Board.  A  benevolent  looking  old  gentle- 
man wearing  pince-nez  and  a  white  moustache  decreed  him  two 
months'  light  duty,  whereupon  he  rejoined  the  reserve  battalion  of 
his  regiment  at  Aldershot.  He  was  granted  a  further  fortnight's 
leave  and  spent  this  in  London;  he  was  glad  to  be  back  in  the 
centre  of  life.  The  mountains  of  Mourne  had  been  peaceful,  beau- 
tiful, but  dull.  Physically  and  mentally  the  complete  change  of 
life  and  environment  had  done  him  a  world  of  good.  He  felt  once 
more  aglow  with  zest  and  confidence. 

He  even  began  to  think  again  in  general  terms  of  the  war  which, 
swaying  to  this  side  and  the  other,  rising  in  high  tide  and  beating 
against  the  cliffs  of  victory  and  then  falling  back  into  the  trough 
of  disappointment  and  defeat,  always  impended  and  always  dark- 
ened the  horizon. 

He  had  heard  from  Eric,  who  had  been  home  on  leave.  Eric 
had  written  once  from  Scotland,  and  once  from  London. 

"...  I  spent  most  of  yesterday  with  old  Faith.  We  went  to 
a  matinee  and  afterwards  sat  a  long  time  in  the  Park  watching 
the  ducks  go  by.  (Such  ducks!)  She  behaved  very  nicely  —  so 
very  nicely  that  I  as  nearly  as  possible  committed  myself  to  the 
second  time  of  asking.  But  would  this  have  been  comme  il  faut  as 
they  say  in  Streatham.  It's  different  for  you.  You  fixed  up  your 
affairs  before  this  infernal  war.  But  when  one  is  only  home  on 

156 


A  DUEL  A  TROIS  157 

ten  days*  leave  I  suppose  one  ought  to  ask  oneself  whether  it's 
treating  one's  guardian  angel  respectably.  You  see  the  dear  crea- 
ture is  so  confoundedly  high-principled  about  that  hospital  and  me 
and  all.  In  fact  I  feel  inadequate.  What  do  you  think !  Anyway, 
I  didn't.  .  .  ." 

Adrian  believed  he  had  held  the  key  to  Eric's  romance  ever  since 
his  conversation  with  Faith.  He  was  disappointed.  And  yet — was 
not  Eric  right;  Eric  who  had  gone  uncomplainingly  back  to 
France?  And  he,  for  his  part,  re-reading  the  letter,  experienced  the 
first  conscious  intimation  of  a  duty  to  return — and  that  -at  the 
earliest  possible  moment — to  the  acute  physical  experiences  which, 
he  now  frankly  admitted  to  himself,  he  loathed.  Debating  these 
matters,  he  had  moments  of  almost  sinister  misgiving.  They  were 
succeeded  by  periods  of  detached  philosophical  calm.  He  felt  his 
own  life  to  be  in  flux,  he  experienced  the  same  sensation  of  loss  of 
control  that  he  had  known  in  the  small  hours  of  the  Fifth  of 
August,  1914.  Nothing  was  certain,  nothing  static  except  the  fact 
that  nothing  could  be  static.  The  world  was  changing,  the  nations 
were  changing,  and — he  was  changing. 

§2 

Upon  his  return,  the  first  person  he  ran  into — in  Harrods'  Stores 
— was  Gina  Maryon. 

She  was  darting  from  one  department  to  another,  armed  with 
parcels,  and  amazingly  attired  in  a  pronounced  sort  of  deshabille 
which  resolved  itself  presently  into  gauzy  black  bespangled  with 
golden  fleur-de-lys,  a  gold  girdle  at  the  waist.  On  her  head — 
flowing — was  that  which  could  have  been  mistaken  for  a  widow's 
veil,  only  it  was  gold  too.  It  streamed  away  behind  so  that  mean 
people  turned  round  and  sniggered,  while  the  merely  virtuous  said, 
"Good  gracious!" 

"Adrian/"  she  exclaimed  emphatically,  seizing  him  by  both 
hands.  "How  rather  wonderful  to  meet  —  to-day  — now  —  just 
here!" 


I58  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Still  holding  his  hands,  she  gazed  at  him  long  and  earnestly — 
as  if  trying  to  tell  his  future  (he  thought)  by  the  colour  of  his  eyes. 
It  was  evidently  the  latest  thing. 

"And  how  is  the  poor  lad  ?  Haven't  they  shot  you  or  shelled  you 
or  something?  What  a  life!  .  .  .  That  hot  week-end — do  you 
remember? — just  this  time  last  year.  ...  By  the  way,  are  you  in 
love  ?  You've  got  that  far-away  look  still —  or  is  it  the  war  ?  .  .  . 
Come  along!  I'm  absolutely  up  to  my  eyes  in  things.  Come  and 
buy  flowers  with  me !  I  must  have  flowers.  Can  one  live  without 
flowers?  I'm  selling  socks  for  orphan  babies  this  afternoon  at 
Princes'.  .  .  .  Pinks,  pansies,  geraniums,  buttercups,  anything. 
But  flowers!"  She  rushed  off  in  the  wrong  direction,  and  on  his 
pointing  out  this,  said  suddenly,  glancing  sharply  at  him : 

"My  dear,  she's  looking  so  pretty.  I  tell  you,  she's  looking 
lovely.  Properly  dressed  that  girl  would  be  a  dream.  Harry's 
infatuated.  We've  all  lost  our  hearts.  She  has  personality.  She 
has  charm.  She's  come  on  a  lot.  She  only  wants  time.  But  she 
does  not  understand  clothes.  Helena  Cranford's  ideas  are  no  use 
to  her.  I  saw  the  ravishing  creature  on  Tuesday  night  at  Giro's. 
We  made  up  a  party — Venetia  Romane  and  Harry  Upton — you 
remember  him  at  Arden? — and  Venetia's  cher  ami — and  a  young 
Cornwallis  in  your  regiment  and  Casavecchia  from  the  Italian 
Embassy — such  an  amusing  little  person! — and  one  or  two  others. 
We  had  the  greatest  fun.  If  only  they  wouldn't  close  the  damned 
place  at  12.30!  .  .  .  All  the  same  London's  a  dreary  amusement. 
I'm  just  about  fed  up  with  it.  But  you  see  I'm  in  love  with  Casa- 
vecchia and  the  Rosebud  and  all  of  them,  so  I  can't  possibly  get 
away  yet!  .  .  .  Will  you  really  give  me  the  gardenias?  How 
really  truly  sweet  of  you!  .  .  .  I've  been  away.  I'm  only  just 
back,  and  on  Saturday  we're  all  going  down  in  a  herd  to  Stratford- 
on-Avon  to  get  atmosphere  for  the  Shakespeare  tableaux  Venetia's 
doing.  Characters  from  Shakespeare,  you  know ;  will  you  be  one  ? 
You'd  make  a  good  lago.  It's  coming  off  for  rickety  Belgians  next 
month.  You  really  must  see  my  Juliet  and  bring  everybody  you 
can — don't  you  think  it  will  suit  me  ?  ...  Do  you  really  mean  to 
say  you  haven't  seen  your  Rosemary  yet?  Well,  you're  a  poor  sort 


A  DUEL  A  TROIS  159 

of  admirer.  My  dear,  she's  pining  to  see  you.  She  was  talking 
about  you  the  other  night.  Ring  her  up  at — let  me  see,  I've  got 
the  number  somewhere," — her  hand  dived  into  a  black-and-gold 
be-tasseled  bag — "Gerrard  11330 — that's  it!  They've  taken  a  flat 
till  they  can  get  a  house.  You'll  find  'the  Countess'  more  'the 
Countess*  than  ever."  She  laughed  trebly.  "Hi!  A  taxi!  Thank 
you,  my  dear.  Now  I  must  rush,  simply  tear  for  my  life.  I'm 
having  luncheon  at  Claridge's  at  one.  It's  a  quarter  to  and  I've  got 
to  go  to  a  dressmaker  and  try  on  Lord  knows  how  many  beautiful 
garments,  though  they'll  never  be  paid  for.  But  it's  in  the  cause 
of  charity — which  covers  a  multitude  of  sins,  doesn't  it  ?  We  shall 
run  into  each  other  again  though — sure  to.  And  remember  Juliet 
at  His  Majesty's  on  the  23rd.  Au  revoir,  au  revoir!" 
She  screamed  the  address  to  the  driver  and  was  gone. 


Adrian  walked  to  his  club.  He  walked  quickly,  oblivious  of  all 
but  one  fact  and  one  thought.  Rosemary  was  in  London,  breathing 
the  same  air,  living,  moving,  just  round  the  corner,  liable  to  be  met 
at  any  moment,  accessible,  close! 

Their  correspondence  during  his  stay  in  Ireland  had  been  con- 
fined to  two  very  ordinary  letters.  In  addition  to  these  he  had 
written  three  very  long  ones — and  torn  them  up. 

Well — Gina  had  said  Rosemary  was  "pining"  for  him!  On 
reaching  his  club,  he  went  to  the  telephone-box. 

His  hand  trembled  as  he  took  off  the  receiver.  Would  SHE 
answer  ? 

"Gerrard  11330!" 

The  waiting  moments  were  trying.  Twice  he  was  given  the 
wrong  number.  His  heart  thumped  furiously,  irrationally.  Would 
SHE  answer? 

"Are  you  Gerrard  11330?" 

"No,  we're  the  Gas  and  Coke  Company." 

He  could  have  laughed — had  he  been  less  angry. 

Interminable    moments   of    waiting.      Would    Lady    Cranford 


160  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

answer?  God  forbid!  He  hoped  she  might  be  out.  If  so,  what 
next?  ...  He  pulled  himself  together,  schooled  himself  to  speak 
in  normal  tones. 

At  last  there  was  a  faint  tick-tick  at  the  other  end  and  a  maid- 
servant's voice — obviously  a  maidservant's — said: 

"Who  is  it,  please  ?:' 

"Is  Lady  Rosemary  Meynell  in?" 

"No,  her  lad'ship's  out.  She's  not  expected  back  till  this 
evening." 

"Will  you  give  her  a  message,  please?  But  no — er — just  say 
Sir  Adrian  Knoyle  rang  up !" 

A  flash  of  intuition  had  indicated  the  safer  course.  He  might 
have  left  a  message.  He  might  have  said  he  would  ring  up  later 
— perhaps  he  would  ring  up  later.  She  knew  his  club  would  find 
him.  The  next  move  lay  with  her.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  by  the  first,  but  by  the  last  post  next  day  that  he 
received  a  note  in  Rosemary's  handwriting.  The  note  ran: 

"37,  Grosvenor  Mansions, 

"Thursday.  "Mount  Street,  W. 

"Mv  DEAR  ADRIAN, 

"So  glad  to  hear  you're  back.  Do  come  to  tea  on  Saturday.  I'm 
looking  forward  ever  so  much  to  seeing  you. 

"In  wild  haste, 

"ROSEMARY." 

What,  he  asked  himself,  did  this  brief  communication  imply? 
That  they  were  to  be  on  a  new  footing?  That  he  had  fallen  in 
her  estimation?  It  was  at  once  a  challenge,  a  disappointment,  and 
a  puzzle.  Really  it  told  him  nothing.  The  few  scribbled  lines 
might  mean  anything.  There  was  the  evasive  quality  in  her. 

§4 

He  knew  no  feelings  of  trepidation  or  anxiety,  but  only  of  over- 
whelming eagerness  when  two  days  later  he  ascended  in  the  lift  of 
the  Mount  Street  flat.  Somehow  or  another  he  had  bluffed  him- 


A  DUEL  A  TROIS  161 

self  into  a  condition  of  high  confidence.  He  had  anticipated  in 
much  detail  the  forthcoming  tete-a-tete,  only  hoping  that  Lady 
Cranford  would  not  appear  on  the  scene  to  interrupt  it.  He  had 
in  fact  rehearsed  the  conversation  in  advance,  held  half-a-dozen 
ready-made  sentences  in  hand,  enumerated  half-a-dozen  points  of 
view  to  lay  before  her,  a  dozen  or  so  memories  to  recall— or  to 
revive.  He  wished,  he  intended,  to  straighten  things  out.  Tact 
would  be  necessary,  indulgence,  restraint.  He  would  not  charge 
her  with  anything  or  refer  in  any  way  to  Upton.  He  would  ignore 
the  whole  subject  of  Upton.  He  would  show  her  that  he  on  his 
part  after  a  year's  absence  was  in  no  way  changed,  and  that  as  a 
matter  of  course  he  assumed  she  was  not. 

How  rudely  were  these  anticipations  shattered! 

The  flat  was  not  a  large  one,  and  when  the  housemaid  opened 
the  door  the  first  thing  he  heard  was  a  man's  voice.  He  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Lady  Cranford  at  the  tea-table,  then — of  Rosemary. 
Then  he  saw  Upton. 

Lady  Cranford  greeted  him  with  a  carefully  adjusted  smile,  held 
out  her  hand  as  if  she  had  been  doing  nothing  else  all  her  life  and 
was  tired  of  it,  and  said: 

"So  glad  to  see  you  back.    You  know  Mr.  Upton,  don't  you?" 

Adrian  flickered  an  eyelid,  Upton  nodded.  Rosemary  held  out 
her  hand  cordially. 

"Hullo,  Adrian!  How  nice  to  see  you  again!  How's  the  dam- 
aged limb?  Sit  you  down  if  you  can  in  this  teeny  room  and  have 
some  tea  and  be  comfortable."  Her  naturalness  was — impenetrable. 

It  was  as  if  there  had  never  been  anything  more — than  that. 

His  first  glance  had  told  him  that  something  new,  some  new 
beauty  of  grace  and  height  and  contour  had  come  to  her  in  his 
absence.  She  was  dressed  in  summery  grey,  she  wore  her  string  of 
pearls.  Something  firmer,  more  mature,  more  expressive  had  come 
into  her  face.  A  new  colour,  surpassing  delicate,  had  crept  into 
her  cheeks.  He  noticed  these  things,  though  after  the  first  greeting 
he  averted  his  eyes.  And  he  noticed  the  rather  commonplace  little 
rose-pink  and  sky-blue  drawing-room  automatically,  just  as  he  re- 
marked the  challenging  smile  on  Upton's  unwholesome  face. 


162  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Upton  wore  a  blue  serge  suit  and  a  black  bow  tie.  Adrian 
thought  he  looked  like  a  professional  musician  or  a  Socialist  Member 
of  Parliament.  He  was  almost  blatantly  "intellectual."  The 
martial  spirit  had  evidently  not  yet  claimed  him. 

So  this  was  to  be  their  tete-a-tete! 

Adrian's  chagrin  was  complete.  He  was  dumbfounded  at  the 
girl's  audacity.  His  blood  boiled  now  against  the  one,  now  against 
the  other.  He  felt  that  somehow  he  must  cope  with  the  situation, 
but  his  mind  was  in  a  turmoil.  What  did  it  all  mean?  .  .  .  He 
knew  what  it  meant.  It  meant  that  Rosemary  was  asserting  the 
independence  he  had  freely  given  "back  to  her,  that  she  was  de- 
liberately issuing  defiance. 

"Here  I  am!"  she  seemed  to  say,  "Rosemary  still — but  not  so 
easily  captured!  If  you  want  me,  you'll  have  to  win  me  a1!  over 
again — see  ?" 

The  girl  herself  then  had  cold-bloodedly  contrived  this  situation ! 
And  she  was  quite  shamelessly  enjoying  it.  She  delighted  in  con- 
fronting these  two  who,  she  knew,  detested  each  other.  Well,  she 
should  enjoy  it  as  little  as  he  could  contrive.  If  only  he  had  at  his 
command  the  loud  self-confidence  of  a  Sir  Walter  Freeman,  the 
imperturbability  of  an  Eric  or  an  Orde,  the  blandness,  however 
odious,  of  Upton  himself!  He  had  not.  He  was  as  ingenuous  as 
a  child.  Emotions  flickered  across  his  face  with  the  infallibility  of 
an  index.  He  felt  the  tensity  of  the  situation  overmuch. 

§5 

The  conversation  at  first  consisted  of  commonplaces.  How  had 
he  fared  at  Mrs.  Clinton's  hospital?  What  had  he  been  doing  in 
Ireland  and  how  was  his  uncle,  Sir  Patrick?  Where  was  he 
quartered,  and  when  was  he  going  to  rejoin  his  regiment?  Poor 
Captain  Orde — had  he  seen  him?  Had  he  heard  of  So-and-So's 
engagement  and  wasn't  it  dreadful  about  such-and-such  an  one 
being  killed?  The  hospital  at  Stavordale  Castle?  Yes,  it  had 
been  closed  down — the  methods  or  rather  lack  of  methods  of  the 
War  Office  were  more  than  she,  Lady  Cranford,  could  cope  with. 


A  DUEL  A  TROIS  163 

For  he  found  himself  drawn  into  exclusive  conversation  with  her 
ladyship,  who  wanted  to  know  the  truth  of  the  shell-shortage  scare 
and  our  alleged  gigantic  losses  on  the  Western  Front.  Would  the 
Germans  march  on  Petrograd  after  the  fall  of  Warsaw,  were  the 
Russians  completely  done  for?  And  so  forth.  He  found  difficulty 
in  concentrating  his  attention  on  matters,  the  interest  of  which  was 
for  him  at  the  moment  nil ;  he  kept  catching  snatches  of  Rosemary's 
and  Upton's  small  talk.  He  could  not  but  feel,  however,  Lady 
Cranford's  attraction  as  a  listener,  nor  could  he  remain  entirely 
oblivious  to  the  compliment  implied  in  her  questioning. 

At  length,  tea  being  over,  she  rose,  saying  that  she  was  going  to 
lie  down,  as  her  custom  was,  before  dressing  for  dinner. 

Thus  the  three  were  left  alone. 

Adrian  sat  facing  Upton.  Upton  sat  at  right  angles  to  Rose- 
mary. Rosemary  occupied  the  sofa.  The  tea-table  was  between 
the  three.  From  the  first  the  two  men  stared  across  at  each  other 
with  unconcealed  hostility.  Upton  would  not  meet  Adrian's  rather 
aggressive  stare,  but  wore  a  half-defiant,  half-triumphant  smile  as 
who  should  say: 

"I  know  all  about  you.  Now  then,  a  fair  field  and  no  favour! 
You're  no  more  to  her  than  I  am.  Don't  think  I'm  going  to  hand 
over  the  reins!" 

How  he  detested  the  fellow ! 

And  Rosemary — was  judge  and  jury.  Instinctively  he  knew  that 
all  the  time  she  was  watching  them,  watching  them  out  of  her 
quick  little  eyes  and  alert  brain,  comparing  them,  weighing  them 
up,  judging  between  them,  probably,  nay,  certainly  laughing  at 
them  both.  It  was  the  role  she  had  set  herself  to  play. 

"When's  the  war  going  to  end?"  she  demanded. 

"A  good  many " 

"Personally,  I  don't  think  .  .  .  beg  pardon,  Knoyle!" 

Both  men  had  begun  to  speak  at  once.  Upton  smiled;  so  did 
Rosemary. 

"A  good  many  soldiers  say  it  will  be  a  draw,"  pursued  Adrian 
in  a  constrained  voice.  "Some  have  thought  so  all  along.  Of 
course,  we've  got  enormous  resources  which  I  suppose  are  increasing 


164  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

every  day,  but  the  Boches  are  fighting  on  internal  lines  and  the 
defence  has  a  huge  advantage  nowadays.  I  don't  see  myself  how 
we're  ever  to  break  through." 

He  happened  to  have  been  reading  an  article  by  The  Times 
Military  Correspondent  that  morning. 

"Good  heavens!  Is  that  the  effect  Ireland  has  had  on  you?" 
laughed  Rosemary.  "You're  not  fit  yet — that's  quite  clear.  You 
want  sea-air  and  champagne!  What  can  we  do  for  him,  Harry?" 

"My  chief  gives  it  a  year,"  said  Upton,  without  noticing  her 
remarks.  "The  blockade  will  finish  them  by  this  time  next  year 
apart  from  anything  else.  They  are  getting  short  even  of  the  bare 
necessities.  They've  absolutely  no  rubber,  very  little  metal,  and 
very  little  raw  spirit,  so  I  don't  see  where  their  equipment  and 
ammunition  are  to  come  from.  Then  of  course  there's  the  food 
question -" 

"As  long  as  we  aren't  starved  first,"  put  in  Rosemary.  "You 
don't  think  that,  do  you,  Harry?  I'm  so  greedy,  you  know." 

Upton  with  a  flourish  offered  jam  sandwiches. 

Adrian,  not  to  be  outdone,  handed  the  bread-and-butter.  The 
competing  plates  collided. 

"Ah!"  she  laughed.  "Be  careful!  Which  shall  I  have?  Well 
— I  can't  resist  jam  sandwiches." 

She  shot  a  smiling  glance  at  Adrian,  who  winced. 

Everything  about  the  fellow  exasperated  him.  The  large  liquid 
eyes — that  women  found  attractive.  His  faintly  patronising, 
slightly  affected,  didactic  way  of  talking.  The  sort  of  expressions 
he  used  such  as  "My  chief."  The  undeniable  precision  of  his  point 
of  view. 

"Look  at  the  creatures  we've  got  filling  Government  offices !  It's 
all  very  well  talking  about  what  may  happen.  As  Cyril  Orde 
says " 

He  checked  himself.  He  realised  that  he  was  verging  on  down- 
right rudeness  and  appreciated  the  foolishness  of  it.  Upton 
grinned  malicious  defiance,  with  a  hint  of  impending  triumph. 
Adrian  changed  his  tone. 

"Oh!  well,"  he  ended  rather  lamely,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 


A  DUEL  A  TROIS  165 

"I  suppose  nobody  knows  much  about  it  either  way.  I  only  hope 
you're  right.  We  haven't  heard  what  you  think  yet,  Rosemary." 

Rosemary  laughed. 

"My  dear,  my  opinions  are  at  present  discoloured  by  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  Countess  of  Cranford's  hospital — a  concatenation  (is 
that  the  word?)  of  chloroform,  bismuth,  disinfectant,  steriliser  and 
red  tape  from  which  I  never  expected  to  emerge  alive !  We  never 
had  any  time  to  think  of  how  the  war  was  going,  we  only  saw  the 
effects  of  it,  which  I  thought  disagreeable  in  the  extreme.  And 
mamma  was  terrible  grim!  Mamma,  you  see,  is  efficient.  She's 
the  sort  of  person  who  enjoys  the  worst  cases.  Oh!  no  more  hos- 
pitals for  me.  Not  this  child!  I'm  going  to  adopt  a  general — 
like  Gina." 

"Or  sell  programmes  for  war-babies  or  *  walk-on'  at  charity 
matinees  for  rickety  Belgians — what  ?" 

Adrian  could  not  forego  this  chance  cut  at  her  whom  he  now 
regarded  as  his  enemy. 

"Both  of  which  Gina  does!" 

"Who  is  Gina's  general,  by  the  way?  I  met  her  the  other  day 
but  she  never  mentioned  him." 

"Haven't  you  heard  ?  Oh !  But  it  was  absurd.  By  dint  of  the 
sort  of  "wire-pulling"  ("or  leg-pulling,"  Upton  interposed)  "at 
which  she  excels,  she  got  attached  to  this  important  personage  in  the 
capacity  of  chauffeuse.  You  know  what  she  is.  Well,  she  turned 
up  an  hour  late  the  first  morning  and  went  to  the  wrong  address 
the  second.  After  that  she  was  told  she  needn't  appear  again.  In 
fact,  a  red-capped  and  gold-laced  gentleman  politely  suggested  she 
should  try  an  aeroplane  instead,  which  gets  there  quicker,  he  said, 
and  can't  take  a  wrong  turning.  Since  when  ...  as  you  say!" 

Rosemary  and  Upton  laughed. 

Adrian  murmured,  "Typical!" 

The  story  irritated  him  as  Gina's  laugh  did.  It  was  typical  of 
her.  It  was  tiresome — and  time-wasting.  He  suspected  Rosemary 
had  told  it  on  purpose  to  annoy  him. 

And  it  only  needed  this  to  explain  the  change  in  Rosemary — 
that  change  which  he  had  been  trying  to  fathom  ever  since  he 


1 66  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

entered  the  room.  She  was  a  Maryonite.  In  his  absence,  she  had 
become  a  Modern  Bohemian.  Where  were  the  old  candour  and 
simplicity,  the  ingenuous  if  sometimes  mischievous  look  of  earlier 
days?  Now  her  face  showed — well,  self-consciousness.  She  was 
conscious  of  her  charm  as  a  woman — and  a  beautiful  one — where 
he  remembered  her  only  a  child  of  Nature.  She  was  conscious  of 
power. 

And  she  offered  him  a  scented  cigarette. 

§  6 

"I  believe  Adrian  disapproves  of  Gina,"  she  said,  turning  to 
Upton.  "He's  shocked  at  her  behaviour,  aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  no!    Not  a  bit " 

"You  forget  Knoyle  has  been  fighting  for  his  country!"  sneered 
Upton.  "He  takes  life  seriously." 

"I  meant  to  cast  no  reflections  on  the  lady,"  Adrian  protested. 
"Everybody  says  she's  clever,  which  is  irritating  certainly.  I've 
read  the  first  edition  of  'Rays.'  Frankly,  I  think  it's  rot.  I'm 
going  to  see  her  as  Juliet.  But  she's  born  out  of  due  time,  don't 
you  think?  To  me,  she's  an  anachronism  at  this  time  of  day." 

"A  what?    Great  Scott!" 

"Well,  I  wondered  how  the  war  would  take  her.  I  mean,"  he 
finished  up,  falteringly,  "the  war — takes  people  different  ways." 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me,"  laughed  Upton,  "I  think  it  takes  her  to 
Giro's  most  nights  of  the  week,  don't  you,  Rosemary?" 

Adrian  stiffened.  The  other  two  exchanged  glances.  The  girl 
said : 

"Well,  don't  look  as  if  you  disapproved,  young  man !  We  don't 
mean  any  harm,  do  we,  Harry?  What's  the  use  of  sitting  down 
and  crying  over  the  beastly  war?  As  Gina  says,  'It's  a  short  life, 
so  live  it.'  Come  with  us  to  Giro's  on  Sunday  night  and  try  one 
of  Harry's  new  concoctions — what  do  you  call  the  things,  Harry? 
— a  'horse's  face,'  or  something  very  odd.  I  thought  it  horrible 
personally,  but  I'm  sure  it's  just  the  thing  to  pull  you  together, 
m'lad." 


A  DUEL  A  TROIS  167 

He  felt  fit  to  kill  her — with  his  hate  or  his  love,  he  could  not 
have  said  which. 

They  were  in  league,  these  two.  They  were  laughing  at  him. 
He  was  outside  their  understanding — she  made  him  feel  that.  He 
glanced  at  the  little  enamelled  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  and  saw 
that  he  had  already  been  there  over  an  hour.  But  he  was  deter- 
mined not  to  give  way.  Upton  showed  no  signs  of  going.  He 
would  not  go  till  Upton  did.  He  would  not  yield  a  minute  or  an 
inch. 

Quivering  with  anger  as  he  was,  he  set  his  teeth,  determined  to 
see  it  through.  An  icy  self-possession  came  to  his  rescue  and  he 
answered  with  apparent  good-humour : 

"Can't — thanks  awfully.  It's  the  night  I  rejoin  at  Aldershot. 
But  we  must  go  there  some  other  time — it's  ages  since  we 
danced." 

They  began  talking  plays.  Had  Adrian  seen  "Betty"?  Yes — 
and  what  an  amusing  show  it  was!  Upton  remarked  that  he 
hadn't  been  to  a  musical  comedy  for  five  years. 

"No?"  murmured  Rosemary.  "Have  you  seen  'The  Man  who 
Stayed  at  Home'?" 

Upton  met  that  thrust  with  a  thin  smile.  Adrian's  heart  melted 
like  an  icicle  in  sunlight.  Upton  wasn't  having  it  all  his  own  way, 
anyhow. 

"Anything  to  get  away  from  the  war,"  she  went  on.  "I'm  sick 
of  it.  It  interrupts  everything — you  can't  escape.  The  papers  are 
full  of  it  and  so  are  the  theatres.  Everybody  you  meet  is  a  soldier. 
It's  so  much  more  distinguished,  I  think,  to  be  a  conscientious 
objector.  .  .  .  But,  oh!  lor',  what  fun  one  might  have  had  in 
respectable  times!" 

"Be  charitable,  my  dear  Rosemary!"  said  Upton,  with  an  ex- 
postulatory  gesture.  "Remember  you're  addressing  one  whose 
heart  is  in  such  a  bad  way,  he  may  die  of  palpitations  at  any 
moment.  Personally,  I  have  no  intention  of  joining  the  Army." 

Again  Adrian  thought  amused  glances  passed  between  them. 
He  was  again  hotly  furious.  Whoever  or  whatever  the  fellow 
referred  to,  it  was  an  equally  poor  joke. 


1 68  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

Really  the  situation  was  becoming  impossible.  Everything 
seemed  a  blow  aimed  directly  or  indirectly  at  himself.  The  two 
of  them  were  in  league  against  him — the  one  he  loved  and  the 
one  he  hated  most.  His  subtlety  in  words  was  not  equal  to  that 
of  Rosemary  and  Upton  singly,  let  alone  combined.  He  felt  at 
a  hopeless  disadvantage  against  them.  Against  her — so  it  had  come 
to  that!  He  sat  fast  in  his  chair,  nevertheless,  facing  them  with 
set  face  and  steady  though  mirthless  eyes.  He  would  sit  on  thus 
and  let  it  come  to  an  open  rupture  sooner  than  leave  the  field  to 
his  rival. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Lady  Cranford  entered, 
handsome  in  a  black  evening  gown. 

"I  don't  want  to  interrupt  the  conversation,"  she  said,  "but  do 
you  realise,  Rosemary,  that  you're  dining  at  half-past  seven  and 
it's  already  a  quarter-past?" 

"Goodness  gracious,  yes!  We're  going  to  the  play.  I  clean 
forgot.  We've  had  such  an  amusing  conversation.  Now  I'm 
afraid  I  must  turn  you  both  out.  Good-bye,  Harry!  Sunday 
night,  8.30  at  Giro's — don't  forget!" 

She  turned  to  Adrian  and  it  flashed  oddly  through  his  mind 
that  this  was  the  last  time  he  would  see  her.  But  he  was  deter- 
mined to  betray  no  emotion. 

Upton  was  taking  farewell  of  Lady  Cranford  with  his  back 
to  them. 

Rosemary  was  smiling. 

He  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Rosemary." 

For  a  long  second  her  ringers  touched  his.  Through  those 
baffling  eyes  flickered — the  merest  flicker — the  simple  expression,  at 
once  friendly  and  affectionate  and  charming,  of  the  Rosemary  he 
had  known  at  Arden. 

She  only  said: 

"Good-bye.     Come  again." 

But  it  was  enough  to  make  him  feel  that  he  had  found  after 
all  what  he  had  been  groping  for  through  twelve  eventful 
months. 


A  DUEL  A  TROIS  169 

As  he  walked  down  Park  Lane  (having  curtly  discarded  Upton) 
he  arrived  at  that  reflection  which  comes  to  every  lover  sooner 
or  later — regarding  the  contrariness  of  woman,  the  evasive  quality 
in  woman,  the  psychological  apartness  of  woman,  by  man  never 
reckonably  to  be  understood. 


CHAPTER  VI 
The  Triumph 


A  WEEK  later  the  young  man  again  found  himself  ascending  in 
the  lift  of  the  Grosvenor  Mansions  flats. 

His  features  were  pale,  he  looked  tired.  During  the  week  he 
had  slept  little,  eaten  little,  seen  nobody,  and  spent  most  of  his 
time  wandering  about  the  streets  and  parks.  Two  notes,  one  of 
which  still  lay  in  his  pocket,  helped  to  explain  this  condition.  The 
first  ran: 

"Sunday.  "175,  Eaton  Square,  S.W. 

"DEAR  ROSEMARY, 

"When  I  came  to  tea  yesterday,  I  thought  it  was  understood 
we  were  going  to  talk  over  the  agreement  we  came  to  this 
time  last  year. 

"Instead  I  found  you  with  that  chap  Upton,  whom,  as  you 
know,  I  dislike.  If  you  want  to  forget  everything  that  happened 
a  year  ago,  for  goodness'  sake  say  so  and  there's  an  end  of  it. 
But  be  frank  and  let's  understand  each  other  as  we  always 
used  to.  ADRIAN." 

The  answer  came  three  days  later: 

"Wednesday.  "37,  Grosvenor  Mansions, 

"My  DEAR  ADRIAN,  "Mount  Street,  W. 

"Of  course  I  don't  want  to  forget  anything.  But  don't  be 
silly  about  Harry,  who's  a  dear.  Come  in  and  cheer  me  up  at 
tea-time  on  Friday  as  I  shall  be  all  alone.  Love. 

"ROSEMARY." 
170 


THE  TRIUMPH  171 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Adrian's  state  of  mind  eddied  like  a 
cork  upon  successive  waves  of  hope,  disappointment,  exasperation, 
love,  jealousy,  and  profound  bewilderment.  He  could  no  more 
form  a  conclusion  in  relation  to  Rosemary  than  a  year  ago  he 
could  have  been  persuaded  that  she  would  ever  be  the  cause  to 
him  of  such  mental  torture  and  confusion.  He  repeatedly  recalled 
the  night  of  the  Rodriguez  ball  when  it  had  all  begun.  He 
remembered  the  halo  of  self-satisfaction,  elation,  and  bland  optimism 
with  which  he  had  surrounded  himself  as  he  walked  homeward 
in  the  summer  dawn.  He  would  have  laughed  then  at  the  very 
suggestion  that  any  woman — least  of  all,  Rosemary — could  have 
so  disordered  his  life!  How  confidently,  how  smoothly,  and  with 
what  unrestrained  enthusiasm  he  had  looked  to  the  future  then! 
And  now — doubt,  disillusion,  if  not  debacle.  In  the  background 
of  it  all — the  war.  Moreover,  the  philosophy,  the  composure  that 
had  carried  him  through  his  first  war  experiences  seemed  to  for- 
sake him  in  face  of  this  merely  emotional  situation. 


§    2 

As  he  entered  the  little  drawing-room,  he  caught  sight  of  Rose- 
mary's profile  against  the  window  and  was  amazed,  in  spite  of 
himself,  by  its  beauty:  the  small  head  on  the  slender  neck,  the 
hair  drawn  back  by  the  blue  ribbon  that  made  a  band  across  the 
forehead,  the  features  matchless  in  delicacy  of  outline.  When  she 
spoke  he  was  conscious  afresh  of  the  charm  of  her  voice  and  of 
her  laugh,  of  her  careless  graceful  manner  that  so  perfectly  ex- 
pressed her  attitude  to  life. 

He  resolved  to  go  straight  to  the  point.  She  perceived  the 
strained  unhappy  look  in  his  face  and  smiled  amiably,  though  in 
the  smile  was  a  touch  of — defiance? 

"Rosemary,"  he  began  abruptly  after  they  had  exchanged  a  few 
words  as  to  their  respective  doings  since  the  last  meeting,  "what's 
the  matter?  Something's  happened.  We've  got  off  the  rails." 

"Really!"  she  laughed.     "Have  we?     Where  do  you  get  your 


172  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

low  expressions,  may  I  ask?  Off  the  rails!  What  does  he  mean? 
Explain  yourself!" 

"Well,  it's  no  good  fooling.  You  know  perfectly  well  what 
I  mean.  Things  aren't  the  same  as — as  when  we  last  saw  each 
other.  You're — somehow — changed.  I'm  not,  you  see,  and  .  .  . 
it's  difficult." 

"My  dear,  worthy  goose,  don't  look  so  tragic!  Of  course,  I've 
changed.  You've  changed.  Mamma's  changed  (for  the  worse!). 
We've  all  changed.  Everybody  changes  in  a  year — especially  with 
the  war  and  the  price  of  everything.  Our  tempers  get  short.  But 
you  can't  say  I've  changed  to  you  because  I  haven't.  .  .  .  And 
now  tell  me  all  about  the  battles." 

"Oh!  damn  the  battles!"  Adrian  saw  clearly  that  he  would 
have  to  make  the  whole  of  the  running.  "I  didn't  come  to  talk 
about  them.  You  have  changed  to  me  and  I  want  to  know 
why." 

"It's  the  other  way  about,  I  think,"  she  replied.  "You've 
changed.  You  seem  to  have  become  a  very  serious  young  man  all 
sudden-like.  You  never  had  that  far-away  look  when  I  knew  you 
— not  even  on  Sunday  in  a  punt!  Laugh!  Smile!  Don't  look 
so  glum!  Why  this  tragi-comedy  Hamlet-and-Romeo  air?  Will 
tea  do  you  any  good,  or  would  you  prefer  some  of  the  ancestral 
cherry-brandy,  or  shall  I  produce  the  remains  of  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne? What  on  earth's  the  matter?" 

He  stared  at  the  carpet. 

"Are  you  in  love,  by  chance?"  she  inquired  demurely. 

"Oh!  hang  it,  my  dear  Rosemary!  You  get  more  like  Gina 
Maryon  every  day!" 

"Well?" 

"Well,"  he  broke  out  angrily.  "It's  a  confounded  pity.  It's 
a  great  mistake!  Why  can't  you  be  yourself?  I  can  feel  the 
change  in  you.  Good  God,  how  different  you  were  a  year  ago! 
Don't  think  I'm  losing  my  temper — but  what  a  pity  it  is!  Do 
you  ever  see  anything  of  Faith  now,  do  you  ever  write  a  line  to 
Eric?  Look  at  this" — he  picked  up  a  book,  whose  cover  rayed 
orange  and  silver  from  a  gold  centre.  "  'Rays'  by  Gina  Maryon, 


THE  TRIUMPH  173 

Venetia  Romane,  Harold  Upton,  etc.  Now,  who  would  have  seen 
that  on  a  table  of  yours  a  year  ago?  Why,  you'd  have  laughed 
the  thing  out  of  existence!  I  don't  want  to  be  disagreeable,  but 
can't  you  see  it's  the  most  hectic  tommy-rot  ever  printed  and 
paid  for?  I  can  just  imagine  Gina  'educating  you  up  to  it!'  .  .  . 
Why  do  you  run  about  with  all  that  Maryon  crowd,  why  not 
stick  to  old  friends  like  Eric  and  Faith  and  people  of  your  own 
sort?" 

"Like  yourself,  you  mean?"  she  put  in — sarcastically. 

"Yes,  and  me,  if  you  like.  You  were  born  to  a  different  side 
of  life,  a  different  world  altogether.  You'll  finish  up  by  living 
with  professional  comedians  and  amateur  poets,  coming  down  to 
dinner  in  a  green  dressing-gown  with  gold  splodges  on  it,  soaking 
yourself  in  cocktails  and  brandies-and-sodas,  discussing  your  emo- 
tions as  if — they  were  somebody  else's,  and  ...  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Well,  I  only  hope  I  shan't  live  to  see  it!" 

A  sort  of  desperation  seized  him. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  boy!  Why  this  sudden  outburst 
of — what  do  they  call  it? — vit-up-er-ation ?  What  have  I  done 
to  provoke  such  a  sermon — poor  little  me!"  But  she,  too,  had  a 
temper.  A  hard  minxish  look  had  come  into  her  eyes.  "I  must 
say  you're  extraordinarily  polite  to  Gina  who  happens  to  be  my 
very  greatest  friend — not  excepting  Faith.  Of  course  I'm  very 
fond  of  old  Faith,  too — we  all  know  she's  a  good  sort  and  all  that 
— but  I  can't  see  so  much  of  her  now  because  she's  buried  in  the 
hospital  and  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  she  has  nothing  like  the 
brilliance  and  charm  and  talents  of  Gina.  Everybody  loves  Gina 
— you  can't  help  it.  If  some  people  would  try  and  understand 
'Rays'  instead  of  abusing  it,  they  might  become  quite  intelligent 
in  time." 

"I  don't  mean  Gina  only.  I  mean  the  whole  crew  of  them — 
poets  and  comedians  and  Jews  and  foreigners  and  all.  They  may 
be  amusing,  but  they're  not  your  lot — they're  not  the  people  you 
were  born  to.  You're  infatuated  with  them,  I  can  see,  and  they're 
spoiling  you  as  they've  spoilt  lots  of  other  people.  Nobody  comes 
to  any  good  who's  taken  up  by  Gina  Maryon.  It's  notorious.  And 


174  #^y  OF  REVELATION 

as  for  your  friend  Upton "  Adrian  paused ;  he  had  spoken  very 

fast  as  if  afraid  of  forgetting  what  he  had  to  say. 

"Ah!  I  thought  that  was  at  the  bottom  of  it,"  she  exclaimed 
vindictively.  "So  that's  wrhat  you've  been  driving  at  all  this  time 
and  never  succeeded  in  getting  out!  'My  friend  Upton' — as  you 
call  him.  Well  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Adrian,  Harry  is  a  friend 
of  mine  and  a  jolly  good  one.  I  know  you're  prejudiced  against 
him — lots  of  people  are.  .  .  .  Why?  Just  tell  me  one  sound, 
sensible  reason.  Why?" 

"It  isn't  only  Upton,  it's — all  of  them.  I  don't  want  to  begin 
personalities,  but  they're  a  rotten  lot — especially  the  men.  They're 
decadent  and  superficial  and  artificial.  Compare  Upton  with  Eric 
or  Gina  with  Faith!  They're — unwholesome.  And  they  aren't 
even  happy.  I've  seen  Gina  in  the  undressing-room  with  the  paint 
sluiced  off  and  the  joy-rags  torn  to  ribbons;  you've  only  seen  her 
on  the  stage  with  the  limelight  and  the  footlights  on.  She's  what 
novelists  and  newspapers  call  'ultra-modern.'  She's  the  precocious 
child  of  the  next  century.  Why  not  stick  to  the  present  one?" 

"What  you  really  want  is  that  I  should  give  up  being  friends 
with  Harry." 

Silence  fell  between  them.  Each  felt  that  the  turning-point  had 
been  reached.  After  all  they  understood  each  other  so  well.  .  .  . 

Adrian's  face  had  grown  firm  and  set.  Rosemary's,  by  turns 
angry  and  mischievous,  now  wore  the  expression  of  a  kitten  playing 
with  its  first  mouse. 

Presently  he  said : 

"Very  well,  put  it  that  way  if  you  like.  But  I  can  be  frank, 
too.  I  come  to  you  humbly  enough  to  ask  whether  you  mean  to 
stick  to  the  understanding  we  agreed  upon  a  year  ago,  or — whether 
you  want  it  washed  out.  You  remember  the  two  conditions?  I 
needn't  mention  them.  Your  mother  made  them.  I  can  only 
say  I'm  equal  to  them  now.  I  don't  come  to  claim  you.  I  agreed 
to  our  engagement  being  broken  off.  I  only  ask  you  to  look  the 
thing  fair  and  square  in  the  face.  You  stand  up  for  Upton  and 
ask  me  what  I've  got  against  him !  I've  told  you  already  I  dislike 
him  personally.  You  can't  marry  both  of  us.  It's  got  to  be  one 


THE  TRIUMPH  175 

or  the  other.  And  you've  got  to  choose.  It  it's  to  be  him,  I  go — 
here  and  now.  If  me,  he's  got  to  fade  away — for  keeps.  .  .  . 
That's  the  case  in  a  nutshell." 

A  flush  had  risen  in  Rosemary's  cheeks  and  her  eyes  were  very 
bright. 

"Things  have  changed,"  she  said. 

"Things!"  he  exclaimed  bitterly.  "Yes— and  people.  But  I 
haven't.  I'm  just  the  same.  I  tell  you  straight  you've  been  in 
my  mind  every  hour  of  every  day  for  over  a  year.  You've  been 
a  part  of  myself.  You've  been  the  mainspring  of  my  life.  I've 
never  been  without  you ;  till  the  last  few  weeks  I've  never  doubted 
you.  You're  as  much  to  me  now  as  you  were  on  that  Sunday 
evening  at  Arden — under  the  willows  in  the  punt.  It's  just  because 
you  mean  so  much  to  me — everything  in  fact  worth  living  for — 
that  I  say  we've  got  to  come  to  a  decision  here  and  now.  Time 
won't  wait.  Things  can't  go  on  like  this.  Uncertainty's  impossible 
to  anyone  who  feels  as  I  feel." 

She  saw  that  he  was  in  earnest,  that  he  was  suffering — and 
liked  him  for  it.  A  queer  little  smile  played  about  her  lips. 

Adrian  did  not  observe  this,  but  gazed  unhappily  out  of  the 
window,  away  over  the  chimney-pots  into  the  blue  sky.  Only  a 
convulsive  gripping  of  the  hands  that  clasped  his  crossed  knee 
betrayed  him. 

When  Rosemary  spoke,  it  was  in  a  hard  level  voice : 

"I  can't  give  up  Harry.  That's  too  much.  .  .  .  Besides,  why 
should  I?  He's  a  great  friend  of  mine — nothing  more  than  a 
friend.  He's  never  been  what  you've  been  to  me,  Adrian.  But — 
I  can't  give  him  up.  It's  selfish  of  you  to  ask  me  to.  He's  never 
said  a  word  against  you.  Why  can't  we  go  on  without  quarrelling 
about  each  other's  friends?  I'm  very,  very  fond  of  you,  but — no, 
I  can't  simply  wash  out  Harry." 

Adrian  rose. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  quietly  and  firmly,  though  blank  misery 
spoke  in  his  eyes.  "Good-bye,  Rosemary.  It's  time  I  was  off." 

He  went  towards  the  door.     She  looked  up. 

"Sit  down!"  she  commanded.     "Don't  be  so  impulsive!     Let's 


176  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

think  the  matter  over  calmly  and  decide  in  a  few  weeks*  time. 
Nothing  could  be  more  foolish  than  to  rush  into  things  of  this 
sort — or  out  of  them.  I  may  have  changed  in  the  last  year.  I've 
gained  experience,  you  see."  She  spoke  with  a  childish  sagacity 
that  would  have  struck  him  as  amusing  had  the  situation  been  other 
than  it  was.  "There's  plenty  of  time " 

"There's  not  plenty  of  time,"  he  broke  in,  taking  one  or  two 
turns  up  and  down  the  little  drawing-room.  A  photograph  of 
Arden  in  the  full-dress  uniform  of  his  old  regiment  stared  him 
in  the  face  and  recalled  memories  that  he  would  sooner  have 
forgotten.  All  the  will  in  him  was  concentrated  on  controlling 
and  crushing  the  weakness  that  surged  up  in  him — the  longing, 
the  passionate  longing  to  take  her  in  his  arms;  to  preserve  her 
from  a  world  that  would  seize  her  and  soil  her  and  make  her 
suffer ;  to  take  her  to  him  for  loving,  for  cherishing,  for  protecting 
— from  herself. 

But  he  only  said: 

"There's  not  plenty  of  time — any  more  than  there's  room  for 
—anyone  else.  I  may  be  selfish.  I  don't  know.  I  know  that 
I  care  for  you  more  than  anybody  or  anything  I  have  ever  cared 
for,  can  ever  care  for  on  this  earth.  I  know  that  I  can't  and 
won't  share  you  with  any  mortal  soul.  I  know  that  every  moment 
of  uncertainty  is  an  agony  and  that  a  year's  waiting  is  more  than 
long  enough.  You've  not  been  frank  with  me.  You  neither  tell 
me  nor  even  hint  to  me  of  your — friendship  with  this  person  until 
I  come  to  ask  you  to  carry  out  your  part  of  our  agreement — then 
you  fling  him  in  my  face.  .  .  .  No,  Rosemary,  you've  not  been 
straight  with  me." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  be  straight  with  you  now !"  she  cried  in  anger. 
"I'll  be  straight  with  you  now !  I  can't  give  up  Harry  as  a  friend. 
What's  more,  I  won't.  You're  asking  too  much.  You're  utterly 
unreasonable!  I'll  make  no  conditions  whatever!" 

In  that  moment  he  feared  for  her  as  never  before. 

Without  a  word  he  held  out  his  hand.  She  took  no  notice, 
but  gazed  obstinately  out  of  the  window.  Sounds  of  the  evening 
streets  came  up  to  them — cries  of  children  at  play  in  the  nearby 


THE  TRIUMPH  177 

mews,  hoots  of  motor-cars,  a  distant  rumble  of  motor  omnibuses 
in  Park  Lane. 

Adrian  went  to  the  door. 

"Good-bye,  Rosemary." 

Her  face  was  bent  away  from  him  and  he  could  not  see  the 
sudden  look  of  fear  that  flitted  through  the  resentful  expression 
of  her  eyes. 

But  as  he  turned  she  moved  her  head  and  looked  up  over  her 
shoulder  at  him  with  an  expression  that  he  well  knew.  She  walked 
deliberately  to  the  sofa  and  sat  down. 

"Silly — old — thing,"  she  murmured,  her  voice  suddenly  quiet. 

His  face  was  still  stern  and  utterly  unhappy;  he  paused,  fingers 
on  the  door-handle. 

"Come  here!"  she  said  softly.     "Come  here!" 

He  hesitated,  fumbled  with  the  door-handle,  looked  at  her — 
moved  back  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

She  half-sat,  half-reclined  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa. 

"Silly — old — fool,"  she  murmured  almost  inaudibly. 

Her  impudent  chin,  her  eyes  dancing  up  at  him,  her  lips  roundly 
pressed  together,  her  gossamer  hair,  her  damnable  charm — drew 
him  .  .  drew  him. 


Very  late  that  night  Rosemary  Meynell  sat  at  her  writing-table 
in  the  little  pink  and  blue  drawing-room  that  so  exactly  resembled 
a  score  of  other  little  drawing-rooms  in  the  West  End  of  London. 

She  was  all  alone  in  the  flat.  Lady  Cranford  had  not  yet  re- 
turned from  the  play.  A  shaded  electric  lamp  cast  a  rose-pink 
glow  on  her  features.  Seen  thus,  it  was  a  face  so  full  of  possibility 
and  charm  that  it  could  neither  be  ignored  nor  forgotten,  but 
seemed  bound  to  play  a  more  than  ordinarily  active  part  in  the 
fortunes  of  men  and  women.  It  wore  at  this  moment  a  troubled 
expression. 

With  long  pauses,  with  much  and  deep  reflection — and  an  occa- 
sional sigh — she  was  writing  a  letter. 


178  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"It's  no  good,"  she  wrote,  "it's  no  good  a  woman  thinking  she 
can  equally  care  for  two  people  at  the  same  time.  Until  to-day 
I  thought  'love'  and  friendship  could  travel  side  by  side.  They 
can't.  Sooner  or  later  one  or  the  other's  got  to  go.  It's  a  question 
either  of  a  big  loss  or  a  big  smash.  I  don't  understand  myself, 
Harry,  as  I've  often  told  you.  I  seem  to  be  two  different  people 
rolled  into  one — since  I  got  to  know  Gina  and  you.  I've  thought 
the  whole  thing  over  calmly  to-night  and  I  realise  that  I  must 
go  back  to  my  true  self — the  original  one.  The  other,  though  it's 
part  of  me,  seems  to  be  only  kind  of  grafted  on.  I've  loved  my 
time  with  you  all — too  much.  If  I  had  cared  for  you  less,  it 
could  have  gone  on  with  the  other  thing.  But — it's  meant  too 
much. 

"And  so  I  said — quite  voluntrarly  (sic)  because  I  see  it's  for 
the  best,  in  fact  the  only  possible  thing,  seeing  what  we've  been 
to  each  other  the  last  few  months — I  said  we'd  each  go  our  own 
way  and  that  except  by  acident  (sic)  we  wouldn't  meet  for  a  very 
long  time.  I  tell  you  frankly  I  hesitated,  but  to-night  I  seem  to 
see  plainly  which  way  my  future  lies  and  that  apart  from  obliga- 
tions I  ought  to  be  true  to  what  I  believe  is  my  real  self. 

"I  have  given  my  word,  Harry,  that  we  won't  meet  again." 

She  paused,  fell  into  reverie,  and  murmured  to  herself: 
"Yes — Adrian  was  right.  They're  not  my  people.  They're 
amusing,  exciting,  attractive — p'raps  I  could  have  become  one  of 
them  in  time.  Perhaps.  .  .  .  They're  like  fireflies,  dragonflies, 
butterflies,  shooting-stars — different  every  time  you  see  them.  So 
am  I  in  a  way !  That's  where  we're  on  common  ground.  ...  At 
times  they're  wonderful — then  maddening.  .  .  .  Harry's  a  wonder- 
ful lover — Adrian's  clumsy.  Harry  can — express  things.  Adrian's 
always  an  Englishman — and  always  the  same.  .  .  .  How  funny 
they  were  together !  Why  will  Harry  wear  black  bow-ties,  stick-up 
collars,  and  say  'Excuse  me'  when  he  gets  up  to  go?  That's  when 
he's  maddening.  .  .  .  Sometimes  wonderful  with  his  big  dreaming 
eyes  and  way  of  saying  things  and — sometimes  just  a  clever  little 
clerk.  Adrian's — himself,  with  something  thrown  in  since  Arden. 


THE  TRIUMPH  179 

I  think  I  like  him  better  than  then.    We  were  a  boy  and  a  girl 
then.    Now  he's  a  man  and  I  ...  feel  very  much  a  woman." 


§3 

The  Yale  lock  on  the  outer  door  clicked  and  Lady  Cranford 
entered,  handsome  and  young-looking  in  a  dark  gown  and  a 
diamond. 

"Well,  child,  writing  letters  at  this  hour?  You  look  tired !  Go 
to  bed.  .  .  .  We  went  to  Teg  o'  my  Heart/  It's  Irish  and 
attractive  and " 

"Mamma!"  Rosemary  interrupted. 

"Yes,  darling?" 

"I'm  engaged." 

Lady  Cranford  said  nothing  while  she  took  off  her  cloak,  nor 
did  she  betray  the  slightest  sign  of  having  heard.  Then: 

"Who  to,  darling?" 

"Adrian  Knoyle." 

Another  pause  during  which  in  front  of  a  mirror  the  majestic 
lady  appeared  to  be  much  occupied  with  the  small  ornament  in 
her  hair. 

"Oh,  well,  he's  an  old  friend,  isn't  he?  Let's  talk  it  over  in 
the  morning.  Come  and  kiss  me." 

Cold  and  imperturbable  as  marble,  Lady  Cranford  allowed  her- 
self to  be  kissed.  It  was  her  way. 

Rosemary  sent  out  her  maid  to  post  a  letter.  Mother  and 
daughter  went  to  bedt 


180  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

CHAPTER  VII 
The  Dream 


UPON  the  expiration  of  his  leave,  Knoyle  rejoined  the  reserve 
battalion  of  his  regiment  at  Aldershot  and  found  himself  back 
in  an  atmosphere  that  had  ceased  to  be  familiar  —  an  atmosphere 
four-square  consisting  of  corrugated  iron  and  wooden  huts,  dusty 
parade-grounds  worn  bare  of  grass,  "orders,"  "duties,"  and  "shop." 
War,  women,  work,  and  whisky  were  the  staple  topics  of  conversa- 
tion in  that  "C"  Mess  whose  atmosphere  was  as  prosaic  and  hide- 
bound as  the  standard  corrugated  iron  erection  which  housed  it. 
During  the  morning,  and  an  hour  in  the  afternoon,  everybody  was 
on  parade.  Everybody  went  to  sleep  over  the  newspaper  in  the 
ante-room  after  luncheon  ;  it  was  a  tradition  to  read  the  Winning 
Post  after  tea.  After  tea,  too,  most  of  the  young  officers  played 
lawn  tennis,  or  by  some  means,  equally  mysterious  to  the  licensing 
authorities  as  to  the  ordinary  foot  passenger,  dashed  about  in  small 
motor-cars. 

Every  Friday  and  Saturday  afternoon,  there  was  a  general 
exodus  in  the  direction  of  London,  while  during  the  small  hours 
of  every  Monday  morning  a  really  surprising  number  of  arrivals 
might  be  noted  at  the  gate  of  the  camp.  Lieutenant  Knoyle  was 
invariably  one  of  these.  A  certain  proportion  of  the  officers  were 
confined  to  camp  by  routine  duties  each  week-end;  he  was  never 
one  of  these.  For  to  Adrian's  surprise  and  great  convenience  he 
found  himself  a  person  of  some  consequence  on  rejoining.  Many 
had  joined  subsequent  to  himself  and  were  still  joining;  most  of 
the  younger  regular  officers  had  been  killed,  incapacitated,  or  were 
"on  the  Staff";  his  own  contemporaries  were  mainly  in  France 
or  in  hospital.  And  so  he  found  himself  a  senior  subaltern.  The 


THE  DREAM  181 

incidence  of  which  was  that  he  also  found  himself  in  a  position 
to  "arrange"  a  large  proportion  of  camp'  duties.  Never  one  minute 
more  than  he  could  help  did  he  spend  in  the  unromantic  atmosphere 
of  Aldershot. 

The  fact  was  he  hardly  noticed  Aldershot.  It  passed  him  by 
as  things  pass  by  a  man  dreaming;  and  the  latter  part  of  that 
August  and  the  whole  of  that  September  were  for  him  a  dream. 
At  Aldershot,  he  was  an  automaton;  it  was  in  London  that  his 
pulse  throbbed  and  his  heart  beat.  Practical  considerations  he 
could  not  deal  with;  he  thrust  them  aside  or  just  left  them 
alone.  And  the  time-honoured  firm  of  Payne,  Payne  &  Payne, 
solicitors,  had  bitter  cause  for  complaint,  their  name  triply  ex- 
pressing their  feelings. 

Adrian  was  engaged  to  Rosemary,  firmly,  boldly  engaged;  this 
was  all  that  mattered.  Rosemary  was  the  world  and  the  world 
was  Rosemary.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  war  (except  when  Eric 
Sinclair  wrote),  and  until  these  matters  were  forced  upon  his 
attention  had  not  the  remotest  idea  that  Warsaw  had  fallen,  that 
there  had  been  an  "affair"  in  the  Baltic,  and  that  the  guns  were 
thundering  with  ever  greater  intensity  along  the  Western  Front. 
All  he  was  conscious  of  were  the  long  London  week-ends  frequently 
extended  to  Monday  evening,  the  occasional  evenings  snatched  (on 
the  French  system),  the  thirst  and  ardour  of  his  renewed  ap- 
proaches to  the  drawing-room  in  Grosvenor  Mansions. 

Lady  Cranford  was  tactful  and  rarely  appeared,  or  was  busy 
and,  safeguarding  the  proprieties,  glad  to  have  her  self-willed 
daughter  off  her  hands.  So  the  couple  led  a  hectic  life.  They 
were  never  still.  The  love  that  had  sprung  up  again  between 
them,  like  an  uncertain  flame,  fanned  itself  and  seemed  now  to 
all  but  consume  them.  Their  movements  were  erratic — but  always 
movements.  They  enjoyed  no  peace  as  at  Arden  and  knew  nothing 
of  Arden's  spaciousness  or  calm  entrancement.  Something  new 
and  turgid — something  integral  to  the  war  and  to  the  time — had 
entered  their  love-making,  as  indeed  it  had  entered  into  the  lives 
of  all. 

Adrian  would  have  been  for  sitting  still.     His  content  was  to 


i8a  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

spend  happy  hours  a  deux  in  the  little  drawing-room  between  tea 
and  dinner.  But  no!  Rosemary  would  allow  this  only  after 
all  other  experiences  had  been  exhausted.  Thus  a  great  deal  of 
their  time  was  spent  in  taxicabs,  in  rushing  from  one  place  of 
amusement  to  another,  in  frequenting  the  gardens  of  Ranelagh  and 
Hurlingham.  They  played  a  great  deal  of  lawn  tennis.  On  Sun- 
days they  often  went  on  the  river  at  Maidenhead  or  Shiplake. 
They  went  to  the  play  and  danced — Lady  Cranford  unvocally  dis- 
approving. Twice  a  week  Rosemary  worked  at  a  canteen. 

By  force  of  circumstances,  the  dictum  had  come  to  prevail  in 
high  circles  that  "nothing  matters  in  war-time."  The  old  con- 
ventions had  (almost  without  exception)  fallen  into  desuetude — 
not,  it  is  true,  with  the  formal  sanction  of  such  confirmed  Victorians 
as  Ladies  Cranford  and  Doncaster  who  entirely  disapproved  of 
young  people  going  about  in  couples;  but  because  these  ladies  could 
no  longer  practically  resist  the  new  customs  that  the  new  set  of 
circumstances  had  ordained.  Nor  were  the  lovers  always  together. 
They  were  often  accompanied  by  one  or  other  of  the  Miss  Kenelms, 
who  gave  no  trouble,  but  on  the  other  hand  a  cachet  of  respect- 
ability, and  who  carried  on  a  mild  spangle  with  a  young  brother- 
officer  of  Adrian's,  Arthur  Cornw^allis  by  name — a  dreamy  youth 
lately  from  Oxford. 

Once,  and  once  only,  they  ran  into  Harold  Upton.  It  was  at 
the  Dover  Street  tube  station.  He  had  blossomed  into  the  uniform 
of  the  Royal  Naval  Volunteer  Reserve  and  if  they  had  not  run 
straight  into  him,  would  have  passed  unrecognised.  He  shook 
hands  with  Rosemary  who  said: 

"Whence  this  vision  in  blue-and-gold  ?" 

Adrian  thought  he  detected  a  momentary  self-consciousness. 

"I  operate  searchlights  on  the  roof  of  the  Admiralty.  You  must 
come  and  see  them  working,  Rosemary." 

His  voice  and  manner  bespoke  a  certain  defiance.  He  ignored 
Adrian  after  one  swift  glance  in  the  latter's  direction. 

"Are  you  still  at  the  Home  Office?" 

"Yes,  but  I'm  a  half-timer.    I've  a  weak  heart,  you  know.    At 


THE  DREAM  183 

present  we're  busy  bringing  out  a  second  edition  of  'Rays.'     In 
fact,  I'm  just  off  to  see  Gina  about  it  now.     By-bye !" 
The  couple  walked  home  silently. 

§    2 

Lady  Cranford  showed  complaisance  about  the  projected  mar- 
riage since  she  was  assured  by  the  majority  of  her  acquaintance 
that  Adrian  Knoyle  was  a  "possible"  young  man  and  that,  con- 
sidering the  dark  circumstances  of  the  time  and  its  still  darker 
prospects,  Rosemary  might  have  done  worse  for  herself.  Lady 
Cranford's  common  sense  affirmed  the  same  view  and  she  put  no 
impediment  in  the  young  people's  way.  Her  peculiar  pride  spoke 
differently. 

She  had  more  than  one  conversation  with  Lady  Doncaster  on 
the  subject: 

"Of  course,  he's  quite  a  nice  sort  of  boy,  Carrie  and  all  that — 
I've  nothing  against  him.  There's  five  thousand  a  year  and  a  place, 
but — I  don't  know — when  one  thinks  of  the  chances  that  gal's 

had •!     One  has  to  think  of  practical  considerations,  especially 

in  these  times — nobody  knows  that  better  than  you  and  Doncaster! 
— and  what  money  he's  got  is  in  land.  That  young  Upton  in 
the  Home  Office,  who  wanted  to  marry  her,  though  one  doesn't 
know  much  about  him,  is  extremely  well  off,  clever,  I  think,  and 
very  agreeable,  but  there  seems  to  have  been  some  previous  under- 
standing over  my  head  with  the  Knoyle  boy,  As  you  know,  I  put 
a  stop  to  it  once." 

"The  gal  might  have  done  better  for  herself,"  Lady  Doncaster 
declared,  pouring  out  tea.  "On  the  other  hand  she  might  have 
done  worse.  She's  just  as  pretty  as  she  can  be  and,  of  course — 
though  Margaret  Knoyle  is  a  dear,  I've  known  her  all  my  life — 
the  Knoyle  side  is  really  not  very  interesting  and  five  thousand 
with  a  place  to  keep  up  is  nothing  in  these  days.  However,  if 
they're  fond  of  each  other — — " 

"Oh!  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said.  It  would  be  useless  for 
me  to  say  anything.  I  should  like  them  at  any  rate  to  wait.  But 


184  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

you  know  what  Rosemary  is,  you  know  what  all  the  gals  of  the 
present  day  are — one  can't  say  a  word  to  'em.  .  .  .  Yes — I  do 
feel  she's  wasted.  There  she  was  all  last  summer,  as  pretty  and  well- 
dressed  as  any  gal  in  London,  with  every  chance  in  the  world  and 
crowds  of  very  presentable  young  men  hanging  about.  .  .  .  She 
could  have  married  Fotheringay — so  nice,  though  a  bit  wild — but 
no!  she  insisted  on  going  her  own  way  and  choosing  her  own 
friends.  .  .  .  All  these  children — I  don't  know,  we're  old-fashioned 

I'm  always  being  told,  but " 

"It's  no  use  worrying,  my  dear.  They  will  know  better — until 
a  couple  of  years  after  and  then  .  .  .  weeping  and  gnashing  of 
teeth,  followed  by  the  Divorce  Court.  Edward  and  Mary  Arden 
are  exceptionally  lucky,  of  course.  Faith,  I  think,  is  thoroughly 
sensible,  not  at  all  your  'gal  of  the  period,'  and  will  soon  make 
up  her  mind  to  marry  that  nice  young  Sinclair  who  comes  into 
all  the  Craigcleuch  property.  There's  plenty  of  money,  and  I 
believe  he's  done  so  well  in  France." 

§3 

Lady  Cranford's  consent  having  been  won  and  there  being  no 
obvious  impediment,  the  wedding  was  arranged  for  the  middle  of 
October.  Owing  to  the  war  and  Sir  Charles  Knoyle's  recent 
death,  it  was  to  take  place  as  quietly  as  possible  in  Yorkshire, 
with  no  public  announcement  until  a  week  or  so  before  the  event. 
Lady  Cranford  described  it  to  her  friends  as  "a  hole-and-corner 
affair." 

Meanwhile  time  was  passing,  and  that  month  of  September, 
1915,  was  not  as  other  Septembers  in  London.  Such  an  autumn 
had  never  been  known.  London  was  full  of  people  instead  of 
being,  as  in  happier  days,  utterly  deserted.  Whence  and  why  they 
came  none  could  say.  The  fashionable  streets  and  more  especially 
the  resorts  of  pleasure  were  full  to  overflowing,  and  if  superficially 
life  seemed  to  be  more  careless,  more  intense,  more  abandoned 
even  than  in  peace-time,  there  might  yet  be  found  a  very  short 
distance  below  the  surface,  consuming  anxiety,  suspense,  and  men- 


THE  DREAM  185 

tal  torture.  Upon  the  public  conscience  still,  in  the  public  mind 
lay  the  tragedies  of  Neuve  Chapelle,  of  the  Second  Battle  of  Ypres, 
of  Festubert,  and  the  opening  phases  of  the  Dardanelles  campaign. 
In  the  East,  the  Russians  were  everywhere  retreating.  The  grey 
tide  of  the  German  armies  seemed  to  be  surging  forward  East 
and  West. 

And  it  was  as  though  Doom  daily,  nightly,  hourly  and  invisibly 
crept  nearer  to  London  itself. 

Adrian  and  Rosemary  sitting  at  the  open  window  of  the  Gros- 
venor  Mansions  flat,  could  sometimes  hear  the  sound  of  the  guns 
in  Northern  France.  It  was  usually  after  dinner  when  that  quarter 
of  the  city  is  comparatively  quiet,  only  an  occasional  motor  omnibus 
lumbering  past  at  the  street's  end. 

"Listen!"  he  would  whisper. 

And  she  would  bend  her  head.  The  low  muttering  seemed  to 
come  from  the  south-west. 

"Funny,  isn't  it?" 

She  would  squeeze  his  hand. 

"Oh,  Adrian!"  she  murmured,  "I  don't  know — there's  some- 
thing awful  and  warning  in  it.  ...  Please,  please — you  must 
never  go  back  there!" 

And  he  would  laugh  if  in  the  mood,  or — kiss  her  gravely  and 
tenderly;  or,  again,  leading  her  to  the  piano,  would  insist  upon 
her  singing  that  snatch  of  the  Apache  ditty  which  she  had  sung 
at  Arden: 

"C'est  la  valse  brune 
Des  chevaliers  de  la  lunc, 
Que  la  lumiere  importune, 
Et  qui  recherchent  un  coin  noir." 

"It's  a  queer  little  thing,  that,"  he  would  say.  "It  will  always 
remind  me  of  Arden  and  our  love." 

§  4 

There  was  a  night  when,  coming  out  of  a  theatre  in  Shaftesbury 
Avenue,  they  found  hurrying  crowds,  people  gazing  upwards,  and 
a  saffron  glow  in  the  eastern  sky. 


i86  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

There  were  detonations. 

A  man's  voice  said:    "Can  you  hear  it?" 

And  another:   "No,  I  think  it's  passed  away." 

All  around  people  were  calling  out: 

"Look  at  the  sky!  Look  at  the  sky!" — but  remained  at  gaze 
regardless  of  danger.  Was  it  lack  of  imagination  or  a  sort  of 
dumb  surprise,  he  wondered?  For  Adrian,  that  night  was  a 
revelation  of  mob-psychology. 

And  the  lurid  eastward  glow,  throwing  into  relief  the  chimney 
stacks  and  church  steeples,  the  bold  stone  pinnacles  and  lofty 
projections  above  the  city;  the  dim,  hurrying  or  watching  crowds 
beneath,  whose  faces  were  pallid,  some  with  fear  and  some  with 
excitement;  the  clangour  of  the  racing  fire-engines,  the  occasional 
violent  explosions  near  and  far,  the  unearthly  droning  of  aeroplanes 
in  darkness  overhead,  the  mysterious  frenzy  and  confusion  of  it 
all — these  presented  to  the  young  man's  imagination  a  spectacle 
more  tremendous  and  more  awe-inspiring  than  anything  he  had 
seen  before. 

It  seemed  to  him  then  as  though  some  Judgment,  great  and 
terrible — for  all  its  sins  and  shames,  for  all  that  city's  wrongs 
and  self-inflicted  woes — impended  above  himself,  above  her  beside 
him,  above  the  generality  of  mankind. 

Rosemary  clung  to  his  arm  in  these  moments,  thrilled  and 
wondering  not  less  than  he.  And  in  these  moments  they  lived. 

He  pushed  her  into  a  taxicab  before  half-a-dozen  other  struggling 
people  and  ordered  the  driver  to  Grosvenor  Mansions.  As  they 
slowed  down  to  cross  Piccadilly  Circus,  an  hysterical  woman  tried 
to  climb  in.  Only  then  was  Rosemary  frightened.  When  they 
reached  home  she  insisted  on  changing  into  a  tweed  coat  and  skirt 
and  going  off  to  the  City  where  the  fire  was  raging.  .  .  .  When 
they  reached  home  again,  dawn  had  come. 

During  all  those  September  days  while  the  artillery  duel  grew 
fiercer  and  fiercer  on  the  Western  Front,  and  from  one  club  to 
another,  from  one  little  forum  to  another  the  know-alls  ran  with 
their  ill-founded  tidings — these  two  lived  on  in  their  dream. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
The  Awakening 


THE  Battle  of  Loos  broke  upon  the  world  on  Sunday,  September 
25th,  1915.  Four  days  later  Adrian's  Commanding  Officer  sent 
for  all  officers  to  the  Orderly  Room. 

"I've  brought  you  here  to  tell  you  that  during  the  present 
fighting,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  our  battalions  have  lost  very  heavily, 
especially  in  officers.  It  will  be  necessary  to  send  out  a  big  draft 
at  once  with  another  to  follow,  and  I  want  every  officer  who 
is  fit,  to  get  ready  to  proceed  overseas  at  once,  and  those  who 
are  not  passed  fit  to  go  before  Medical  Boards  as  soon  as  possible 
with  a  view  to  being  so.  Please  give  your  medical  histories  and 
categories  to  the  Adjutant.  There  will  be  no  leave  of  any  kind 
until  further  orders.  Company-commanders,  get  to  work  on  your 
drafts  at  once." 

That  was  a  rude  awakening  for  Adrian. 

He  realised  with  a  jolt  that  he  had  not  finished  with  the  war, 
that,  on  the  contrary,  the  war  lay  in  wait  to  claim  him  and  use 
him  and  engulf  him.  He  fell  heavily  out  of  his  trance  into  an 
unthinkable  dilemma. 

Yet  as  a  fact  the  moment  his  Commanding  Officer  had  spoken 
he  had  seen  his  duty  outlined  before  him  straight  as  a  broad  white 
road — clear-cut  and  perfectly  plain.  In  that  same  moment  some- 
thing clutched  desperately  at  him.  It  was  not  the  voice  of  Rose- 
mary, though  that  he  heard,  too;  it  was  not  the  mortal  fear  of 
losing  her  at  the  last  that  gripped  him,  it  was  not  the  other  prime 
emotion  of  his  life,  his  love  for  Eric  Sinclair,  who  might  now  be 
lying  wounded — or  might  be  dead;  it  was  not  the  sudden  shat- 
tering of  his  dream  though,  God  knew,  that  hurt;  nor  was  it  the 

187 


i88  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

smaller  though  none  the  less  bitter  thing  that  his  cherished  week- 
end was  lost — perhaps  his  last.  It  was  a  fear  greater  than  these. 
He  felt  like  a  man  who  has  given  his  word  not  to  escape  and  who 
sees  his  prison  door  ajar.  It  could  be  done.  It  was  so  easy.  It 
could  be  done  without  an  effort.  He  had  not  to  pretend,  he  had 
not  to  act,  he  need  only  remain  passive.  ...  He  knew  Medical 
Boards.  They  did  everything  by  routine.  He  had  had  a  couple 
of  months*  light  duty ;  they  would  give  him  a  month's  home  service 
— probably  more.  He  had  only  to  produce  his  medical  history 
sheet,  answer  one  or  two  questions,  and — sit  still. 

Yet  it  could  not  be  done.  He  knew  it  could  not  be  done  the 
moment  he  thought  of  Eric,  of  Eric's  attitude,  scornful  of  home 
and  resolute  after  Neuve  Chapelle,  of  Eric  at  Festubert  unscathed, 
undaunted,  and  still  determined,  of  Eric  serving  long  months  in 
the  trenches  at  Bois  Grenier,  and  La  Bassee,  of  Eric  leaving  Faith 
— a  free  woman;  of  Eric  in  this  mighty  battle  now.  He  simply 
could  not  shut  his  eyes  to  these  things. 

There  were  forty-eight  hours  in  which  to  decide,  forty-eight 
hours  in  which  to  decide  whether  he  should  state  his  case  and 
remain  true  to  Eric,  true  to  himself,  or,  clinging  to  Rosemary — 
remain  silent.  After  he  had  sent  a  telegram  and  written  a  letter 
to  this  little  tyrant  of  his,  there  was  no  more  to  be  done.  He 
saw  that  he  must  fight  the  thing  out  alone.  He  threw  himself 
into  the  work  of  inspecting  kits,  emergency  rations,  boots  and 
what-not,  but  all  he  did  was  mechanical.  He  could  not  concen- 
trate. It  was  as  though  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  an  idle  meander- 
ing he  stood  confronted  by  a  fateful  parting  of  ways. 

His  instinct,  of  course,  was  to  evade  decision.  He  longed  to 
turn  his  back  on  the  alternative,  to  let  somebody  or  something 
or  circumstances  decide  for  him.  Yet  he  could  not  do  that  either; 
the  alternatives  were  too  clear-cut.  And  ever  and  again  came  the 
little  voice  whispering  in  his  ear  of  the  wedding  that  would  have 
to  be  put  off — till  when?  But  no!  why  should  he  visualise  that? 
The  voice  whispered,  too,  of  the  futility  and  unreason  of  the  course 
he  proposed,  of  the  course  that  was  reasonable  and  sensible,  straight- 
forward quite,  and  demanding  neither  evasion  nor  pretence.  It 


THE  AWAKENING  189 

whispered  of  the  fantastic  character  of  his  sentiment  towards  Eric 
— what  would  Eric  expect  him  to  do?  To  come  out  as  soon  as 
he  was  sent  out,  of  course!  If  there  was  anybody  who  loathed 
sentiment,  conventional  sentiment  especially,  it  was  Eric.  He  could 
imagine  the  very  words  of  Eric's  counsel.  .  .  .  And  Rosemary — 
what  would  she  expect  of  him,  what  had  she  the  right  to  expect 
of  him?  Surely  that  he  should  marry  her  as  had  been  arranged, 
on  the  day  that  had  been  arranged.  Was  it  proper,  was  it  com- 
monly decent  to  leave  her  with  the  profoundly  uncertain  prospect 
of  a  further  long  engagement? 

The  same  small  voice  whispered  insidiously,  insistently  over  and 
over  again  the  name,  Upton. 


The  morning  of  the  Medical  Board  came  and  with  it  a  letter 
from  Rosemary  imploring  him  not  to  be  a  fool,  imploring  him 
to  take  no  risks  of  being  sent  to  the  Front  until  after  they  were 
married.  She  knew,  she  said,  what  an  ass  he  could  make  of  him- 
self; she  trusted  him  to  think  a  little  of  her. 

But  he  had  made  up  his  mind  now.  And  nothing  would  change 
it.  Through  the  whole  of  one  day  and  the  greater  part  of  a  night 
he  had  wrestled  with  himself,  cajoling,  conjuring,  reasoning;  and 
at  last  the  still  small  voice  had  nearly  won.  ...  In  the  morning 
came  the  news  which  finally  decided  him.  And  so  far  as  this 
struggle  went  his  mind  was  at  peace. 

The  news  was  that  almost  alone  among  the  officers  of  the  first 
battalion,  Eric  Sinclair  had  been  neither  killed  nor  wounded;  that, 
on  the  contrary,  he  had  achieved  conspicuously  in  the  bloody  assaults 
on  Hill  70;  and  that  he  had  been  awarded  the  Military  Cross. 

Hearing  this,  Adrian  debated  no  more,  was  unmoved  by  Rose- 
mary's entreaty,  and  when  the  senior  officer  of  the  Medical  Board 
asked  him  how  he  felt,  replied  that  he  was  fit,  had  been  fit  for 
some  time,  and  wished  to  be  passed  immediately  for  active  service 
in  the  field. 


igo  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

On  the  following  morning  he  was  informed  by  the  Adjutant 
that  with  eleven  others  he  had  been  detailed  for  the  next  draft 
and  would  be  given  three  days'  leave  in  which  to  obtain  the 
necessary  kit. 

§  3 

Lady  Knoyle  had  taken  a  small  house  at  Ascot,  and  to  her 
Adrian  devoted  the  whole  of  one  of  his  three  precious  days. 

This  day  was  harrowing.  It  was  miserable.  And  yet  it  was 
comforting,  too.  Try  as  she  might,  Lady  Knoyle  could  not  cloak 
nor  dissemble  the  emotions  she  felt  at  this  parting  from  an  only 
son  while  yet  in  the  shadow  of  her  earlier  grief.  All  about  the 
windy  Heath  they  strolled,  pink  and  purple  heather  smiling,  pines 
and  birches  waving  in  the  breeze  that  sighed  through  yellow-prinked 
gorse  of  another  season  gone.  Sun  and  shadow  wheeled  and  wove 
against  the  deep  green  and  black  of  the  landscape,  light-hearted 
golfers  passed  them  intent  upon  their  round — to  all  appearance 
care-free  from  the  war.  The  world  seemed  gay  in  the  bright 
October  weather — it  was  impossible  not  to  inhale  the  scent  of  the 
pines !  They  talked  of  the  parent  \vho  was  gone.  Nor  could  Lady 
Knoyle  forbear  to  speak  of  his  example  of  principle  and  inde- 
pendence, of  his  great  pride  in,  of  his  mastering  love  for,  his  only 
son.  And  of  the  father's  hopes  in  that  son's  behalf. 

And  after  they  had  walked  a  while  without  saying  much,  they 
began  to  talk  of  the  wedding  that  must  be  postponed,  and  of  the 
postponed  happiness  that  must  go  with  it.  Adrian  had  hitherto 
made  no  mention  to  his  mother  of  those  events  which  had  changed, 
or  at  any  rate  seemed  to  be  changing,  the  whole  aspect  and  tenor 
of  his  life.  They  had  seemed  dissonant  from  her  state  of  mind; 
he  had  feared,  too,  to  hurt  her  feelings  so  soon  after  his  father's 
death.  But  he  had  intended  in  any  case  to  tell  her  now.  He 
thus  made  known  to  her  without  hesitation  the  outline  of  his  story, 
confiding  his  intention  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  as  soon 
as  he  could  get  leave,  and  reserving  only  those  details  which  touched 
upon  the  part  Upton  had  played  in  his  affairs. 


THE  AWAKENING  191 

He  did  not  regret  ft.  All  her  patience,  all  her  sagacity,  all 
her  sympathy  were  from  that  moment  his.  He  had  her  blessing. 
She  reinforced,  she  encouraged,  she  counselled.  She  asked  no 
questions  but  by  her  insight  gave  him  a  new  courage,  a  new 
confidence,  a  new  hope,  in  the  course  he  had  elected  to 
pursue. 

"Perhaps  it  is  for  the  best,"  she  gently  said.  "It  seems  hard 
now,  I  know — but  I  think  in  the  long  run  you  may  not  regret  it. 
You're  young,  you're  both  of  you  young,  with,  we'll  hope,  all 
your  lives  before  you  and  little,  thank  goodness,  but  happiness 
behind.  I  have  often  felt  deeply  thankful  that  you  have  always 
been  so  happy.  You  were  as  a  child.  You  were  at  school — and 
afterwards.  But  don't  think  you  always  can  be!  That's  the 
mistake  too  many  people  make.  So  now  remember  this  isn't  the 
end  of  anything,  it's  only — life.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  know  you  so  well 
that  I'm  sometimes  afraid  for  you.  I'm  afraid  of  the  imaginative 
thing  you  get  from  us,  Cullinans — the  Irish  temperament — and 
then,  our,  how  shall  I  say,  hardness  in  suffering.  .  .  .  Never  let 
life  knock  you  down.  Meet  it  fair  and  square,  and  if  it  hits  you 
hard,  give  to  it  like  a  tense  spring — and  spring  back. 

"I  think  you  have  already  begun  to  feel.  I  could  see  a  change 
in  you  when  you  first  came  back.  I  can  see  something  still  different 
now.  This  war  happened  for  you  and  men  like  you." 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  They  came  to  that  part  of  Ascot 
Heath  which  is  opposite  the  stands,  and  Adrian  looked  across  to 
the  enclosure  with  its  white  palings,  reddish-pink  tiers,  and  thick 
second  crop  of  hay,  all  empty  and  forlorn — that  arena  where  with 
no  thoughts  but  of  gaiety,  love,  and  hope  he  had  watched  the  social 
pageant  of  England  moving  and  changing  beneath  him.  And  the 
ground  on  which  he  stood — it  must  be  the  very  place  where  in  the 
hot  glow  of  the  club-tent  Rosemary  and  he  had  sat  together,  dally- 
ing with  strawberries  and  cream  as  they  had  so  far  dallied  with  life. 
There,  too,  it  was  that  he  had  come  by  his  certainty  and  his  de- 
cision. Then  Faith  and  Eric  had  come  in.  ...  He  was  lost  in 
reflection  while  Lady  Knoyle  rested  on  a  sandy  bank.  It  was 
only  at  such  moments,  when  brought  face  to  face  with  one  or 


192  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

other  of  the  events  of  that  far-off  summer,  that  he  apprehended  the 
change  which  had  already  begun  to  move  within  him.  He  still 
did  not  know  the  quality  or  the  extent  of  it  nor  indeed  to  what 
direction  it  tended. 

Lady  Knoyle  was  speaking  again.  Her  rather  sad  Irish  eyes 
gazed  at  and  beyond  the  waving  crests  of  the  Swinley  Woods. 

".  .  .  And  believe  me,"  she  was  saying,  "believe  your  old  mother 
when  she  says  that  in  the  end  it  will  be  worth  while.  One  cannot 
live,  one  cannot  die,  one  cannot  love  or  hope  or  know  or  achieve 
anything  worth  having  without  pain,  without  experience.  Re- 
member that,  whether  it's  the  horror  and  the  dreadfulness  of  the 
time  are  breaking  your  heart,  or  whether — whether  it's  anything 
else.  Suffering  is  the  crucifixion  of  each  one  of  us — the  very  em- 
bodiment of  the  life-story  of  Our  Lord  Who  was  crucified  and  rose 
again  ...  the  anvil  upon  which  is  beaten  out  the  slow-wrought 
progress  of  our  world  and  of  humanity." 

And  although  her  eyes  had  filled  with  tears,  she  presently  con- 
tinued : 

"To  believe  in  God,  a  God,  to  look  up  to — something — to 
believe  in  a  divine  purpose  and  a  hereafter — this  is  not  science  or 
religion  or  metaphysics  or  philosophy;  it  is  instinct — truth." 

They  were  turning  in  at  the  garden  gate  of  the  little  villa  when 
Lady  Knoyle  added: 

"You  may  die,  and  if  you  do,  you  will  have  done  a  good  thing. 
And  if  you  live — you  will  be  the  greater  and  the  better  and  in  the 
end,  perhaps,  the  happier  man." 

During  tea  and  dinner  they  talked  of  his  childhood,  of  his  school 
days,  and  of  Stane  Deverill;  of  the  wide  landscape  viewed  from 
the  Three  Hills  at  sunset  when  woods  and  farms  and  meadows 
sleep  in  peace ;  of  the  white  chalk  horse  on  the  side  of  the  downs,  of 
shadowy  cattleways,  old  encampments,  and  the  grassy  barrows  of 
a  long-vanished  race;  and  of  the  space  and  silence  of  the  Great 
Plain  beyond. 

Only  at  the  last  Lady  Knoyle  broke  down.  Her  son  walked 
through  darkness  to  the  station,  his  heart  heavy  with  the  atmos- 
phere— and  prescience — of  farewell. 


THE  AWAKENING  193 

The  following  day  Adrian  spent  in  buying  and  packing.  At 
night  Lady  Cranford,  Rosemary  Meynell,  himself  and  Mr.  Heath- 
cote — who  arrived,  triumphantly  flourishing  a  preliminary  list  of 
officers  in  the  Foot  Guards  reported  killed  in  the  fighting  at  the 
Hohenzollern  Redoubt — went  to  see  "Watch  your  Step." 


CHAPTER  IX 

Last  Day 

§  i 

THEIR  last  day  together,  Rosemary  and  Adrian  decided  to  spend  in 
a  long  country  walk.  Announcing  that  nobody  was  to  wait  up  for 
them,  they  set  oft  early  and  took  train  from  Marylebone. 

It  was  a  still,  misty  October  morning.  London  behind  them 
lay,  grey  and  sombrely  veiled;  as  they  reached  the  outer  suburbs, 
sunlight  began  to  pierce  through  the  fog.  They  passed  rapidly 
through  Pinner,  Rickmansworth,  and  Amersham  and,  descending 
at  a  wayside  station,  set  off  along  a  lane  past  fields  and  woods  and 
parks  where  copper-gold  sunbeams  made  broad  level  paths  through 
hanging  mists,  while  overhead,  instead  of  the  grey  pall  of  the 
London  atmosphere,  they  caught  glimpses  of  an  enshrouded  blue. 
On  this,  his  last  day  in  England,  Adrian  ached  for  a  breath — that 
he  might  carry  across  the  sea  and  beyond — of  the  English  autumn, 
of  that  so  perfect  Michaelmas  summer.  He  found  what  he  sought 
when  they  came  to  the  yellow  stubble,  the  ploughman  at  work  on 
the  steep  sides  of  the  Chilterns,  the  black  rooks  following  the 
newly-turned  earth,  and  heard  their  clamour  on  the  dry  air. 

He  wanted  to  make  Rosemary,  too,  feel  something  of  this.  He 
hoped  she  might  share  with  him  that  side  of  nature  and  life  which 
finds  expression  in  the  silence  and  solitude,  the  beauty  and  peace 
of  an  autumnal  countryside.  It  was  a  quality  he  had  found  in  the 
writings  of  Jefferies  and  Hudson  and  Hardy;  and  he  spoke  to  her 
of  them. 

She  looked  puzzled,  then  smiled. 

"Who  are  all  these  funny  men?  It's  certainly  a  divine  morn- 
ing." 

It  was  plain  that  she  did  not  understand.  And  the  words  that 
trembled  on  his  lips  were  never  uttered. 

194 


LAST  DAY  195 

If  he  felt  a  twinge  of  failure  or  of  disappointment,  he  corrected 
it  at  once.  He  had  only  to  look  at  her  face — and  the  landscape 
became  filled  for  him  with  a  beauty  transcending  its  own.  It  was 
so  far,  this,  so  infinitely,  mercifully  far  from  the  social  vortex  in 
which  they  had  lived,  from — the  Gina  Maryon  thing!  So  he 
assured  himself:  "Some  day  when  we  have  lived  a  good  while  at 
Stane  and  she  knows  it,  every  inch  of  it,  and  loves  it  as  I  do — 
then  she'll  understand." 

They  had  luncheon  in  the  stuffy  dining-room  of  the  principal 
inn  of  a  small  town  upon  which  they  happened  by  chance.  Neither 
had  remembered  to  bring  sandwiches,  whereat  each  accused  the 
other.  Outside  was  the  market  square,  grey,  red  and  white,  with 
narrow  streets  branching  from  it.  They  could  just  see  the  rounded, 
burnished  tops  of  the  beeches  high  up  on  the  slopes  of  the  hills 
beyond.  The  square  was  empty  save  for  a  foxhound  puppy.  Once 
a  raw  youth  in  corduroy  breeches  and  leather  leggings  came  out 
of  the  inn-yard,  rolled  the  puppy  over,  looked  round  and  went  back 
through  a  side  door  to  the  inn-yard.  That  was  the  only  sign  of 
human  activity. 

After  luncheon,  they  nearly  had  a  quarrel.  Rosemary  was  for 
calling  at  the  mansion  known  as  Ash-hangar  which  lies  beneath 
a  flank  of  the  Chilterns  northward,  and  which  had  lately  been 
bought  from  its  owner  of  centuries  by  none  others  than  Sir  Walter 
and  Lady  Freeman.  They  discovered  this  through  the  loquacity  of 
the  young  woman  who  waited  upon  them.  Rosemary  declared  that 
she  would  give  anything  to  see  the  place  and  that  the  Freemans 
might  provide  them  with  much  entertainment,  Adrian  that  he 
would  give  a  good  deal  to  see  the  place,  but  did  not  feel  in  the 
mood  for  Freemans  on  this  their  last  day. 

"Let's  climb  those  hills,"  he  pleaded,  "and  plunge  into  the 
beechwoods — and  get  lost  in  them  if  you  like — only  let's  spend  the 
whole  of  this  one  day  together." 

Rosemary  became  petulant. 

"You  selfish  old  duffer,"  she  said.  "You  never  do  a  thing  I  ask. 
Why  this  sudden  passion  for  solitude  and  beechwoods?  It  won't 
take  us  long  to  go  to  Ash-hangar,  look  round,  pull  their  respective 


196  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

legs — and  then  there'll  be  time  for  solitude  and  beechwoods.  'The 
day  is  yet  young'  as  Gina  says — of  the  night!" 

"It's  our  last  day,"  he  pleaded. 

"All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  do  one  little  thing  to  please 
poor  little  me." 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  reluctantly  agreed. 

Rosemary  said  "Poor  darling!"  and  kissed  him.  But  in  the  way 
she  said  it,  there  was  something  that  reminded  him  of  Gina. 


Ash-hangar  was,  in  fact, -only  a  mile  outside  the  town.  Round 
the  sweep  of  a  broad  carriage-way  they  came  into  full  view  of  the 
great  Tudor  house.  Everything  seemed  buried  in  unfathomable 
silence.  Not  a  dog  barked.  Not  a  bird  twittered.  Not  a  sound  of 
any  kind  came  from  the  interior. 

So  calm,  so  quiet,  so  self-contained,  so  devoid  of  and  far  removed 
from  life!  It  was  as  though  the  very  spirit  of  the  older-half-for- 
gotten England  had  fled  from  a  world  in  which  it  found  no  place 
— and  hidden  here. 

The  door  was  opened  by  an  almost  indecently  up-to-date  butler 
who  announced  that  both  Sir  Walter  and  "her  ladyship"  were  at 
home.  They  were  conducted  through  a  panelled  echoing  hall  to 
an  inner  walled  garden.  Sir  Walter  was  reading  newspapers,  Lady 
Freeman  and  another  lady  were  knitting. 

"Well,"  said  the  stout,  large,  bald-headed  gentleman,  rising 
heavily,  "this  is  a  pleasure!  An  unexpected  pleasure!  You  know 
my  wife?  You  know  my  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Granville-Brown ?" 

Mrs.  Granville-Brown  in  a  pink  tam-o'-shanter,  yellow  golf 
jersey  and  light  tweed  skirt,  made  a  formal  inclination  of  the 
head  and  said,  "Pleased  to  meet  you." 

Lady  Freeman  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  how  lovely  to  see  you  both!  Let  me  think!  Not  since 
Arden — fancy!  Have  you  had  lunch?  Reelly?  Oh,  well!  then, 
you'll  stay  and  have  an  early  cup  of  tea.  We'll  have  a  little  chat 
and  then  take  you  round  the  sweet  old  place." 


LAST  DAY  197 

She  threw  a  sparkling,  an  almost  confidential  glance  from  Adrian 
to  Rosemary. 

The  Freemans  had  been  established  at  Ash-hangar  only  a  very 
short  time.  It  was  so  "old-world,"  Lady  Freeman  explained — and 
convenient  for  week-ends.  "My  husband  has  to  be  at  the  House 
or  his  Ministry  all  the  week,"  she  added. 

"Yes,"  Sir  Walter  echoed,  "these  are  busy  times." 

They  sat  in  a  circle.  Under  the  Freeman  influence,  Adrian  felt 
that  for  all  the  charm  and  beauty  of  the  place,  the  much-talked-of- 
invasion  of  England  had  really  begun. 

"Everything  going  splendidly,"  Sir  Walter  announced  in  response 
to  Adrian's  conversational  inquiry.  "Most  of  the  confidential  tele- 
grams pass  through  my  department  and  you  can  take  it  from  me, 
young  man,  the  Huns  are  on  their  beam-ends.  They're  starving, 
the  blockade  is  wearing  them  out,  their  losses  have  been  terrific, 
their  munition  supply  is  failing,  they're  using  up  their  reserves  in 
the  East,  and  in  the  West  we  are  in  overwhelming  strength.  In 
the  spring — well,  you'll  see.  It  is  not  a  break-through  this  time 
but,  take  it  from  me,  the  C.-in-C.  never  expected  one — that  I 
happen  *to  know.  We've  got  Hill  70,  we've  got  all  our  objectives, 
it  only  remains  to  finish  off  the  war.  That  ought  to  be  good 
enough,  eh?"  he  finished  up  jocularly. 

"And  what  about  our  losses?" 

"A  lot  of  good  fellows  gone,  of  course;  a  lot  of  good  fellows 
gone.  But  there  it  is — what  can  you  expect?  'Sailor  gare,'  don't 
they  say  over  there  ?  Our  losses !  A  mere  flea-bite,  my  dear  boy, 
a  mere  flea-bite  compared  with  what  we  shall  put  across  this 
winter — a  mere  flea-bite  compared  with  the  losses  of  the  other  side. 
So  go  back  with  a  stout  heart !  Hang  on  till  the  spring !  Business 
as  usual  at  home.  That's  the  message  you  can  take  back  to  your 
comrades — and  good  luck  go  with  you !" 

He  had  caught  a  catch-phrase,  probably  from  a  newspaper,  and 
clung  to  it  like  a  man  with  a  hoboy.  He  was  obsessed  with  it. 
Meanwhile  the  rest  of  the  company  had  been  listening  to  the 
oracle  with  awe — except  Rosemary,  who  sat  on  the  grass  and 


i98  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

played  with  the  cat.  Adrian's  mind  occupied  itself  with  Orde, 
Eric,  and — the  sleepers  in  the  orchard  at  Neuve  Chapelle. 

Now,  however,  Lady  Freeman  began  to  discourse  upon  her  situa- 
tion to  Rosemary  in  a  high  voice.  Mrs.  Granville-Brown,  for  her 
part,  announced  (not  very  appositely)  that  her  husband  was  an 
Army  doctor  at  the  Front. 

"Life  for  us  wives  of  public  men  in  these  days  is,  you  can  be 
sure,  one  long  rush.  We  only  just  managed  to  snatch  this  week- 
end at  a  moment's  notice.  Snatched!  Well — I  insisted  on  it! 
Sir  Walter  was  getting  run  down.  Anybody  can  see  he  wants 
rest  and  change.  'It's  no  use,'  I  kept  telling  him — she  glanced 
fondly  at  her  spouse,  who  made  a  protesting  gesture — 'it's  no  use 
trying  to  burn  the  candle  at  both  ends,  turning  yourself  into  a  bit 
of  the  office  furniture  with  never  a  moment  to  sit  down  and  enjoy 
yourself.'  (He  wasn't  taking  his  food.)  'I  know  they  can't  spare 
you,'  I  said,  'but  it  don't  pay.  That's  the  way  to  lose  the  war,  not 
win  it,'  I  said.  I  used  to  sing  'Your  King  and  Country  need  you' 
every  morning  while  he  was  taking  his  bath — just  to  remind  him. 
Well — it's  a  wife's  duty,  isn't  it ;  it's  up  to  us  women  to  look  after 
the  men  in  these  times — they  won't  look  after  themselves,  poor 
dears.  ...  At  last  he  gave  way." 

"No,  really,"  said  Rosemary  with  innocence. 

"Yes.  Woman's  part  is  not  an  easy  one  in  war  time  whether 
she's  the  wife  of  a  public  man  or  only  of  one  who's  doing  his  little 
bit  over  there,"  put  in  Mrs.  Granville-Brown  rather  tartly. 
"What  do  they  say — 'the  woman  waits.'  It's  very  true.  One  long 
anxiety.  My  husband  is  at  a  stationary  hospital.  But  they  have  to 
put  up  with  damp  blankets  and  Nestle's  milk — and  you  never 
know,  you  know." 

"I'm  not  exactly  idle  m'self,"  continued  Lady  Freeman,  regard- 
less. "I'm  on  the  ladies'  sub-committee  of  the  Central  Canteen 
Board,  I'm  honorary  president  of  the  Bazaar  Fund  for  Disabled 
Officers.  I'm  busy  running  the  Shakespeare  Revival  Charity 
Matinee  with  the  Gina  Maryon-Romane  set  y'know.  It'll  be  a 
smart  function.  Then  there's  my  political  work  to  help  Sir  Walter. 
Oh,  dear!" 


LAST  DAY  199 

Rosemary  glancing  down  saw  on  the  grass  beside  her  a  copy  of 
the  "Prattler"  lying  open  at  a  page  which  displayed  the  photographs 
of  four  ladies  in  natty  uniforms.  She  immediately  espied  the  bold, 
vulgarly  handsome  features  of  Lady  Freeman,  who  was  described 
in  print  above  the  usual  size  as  "An  Enthusiastic  War-worker," 
with  the  addition  of  a  few  of  those  personal  details  which  the  good 
lady  herself  had  just  supplied.  Rosemary  giggled,  and  found  sal- 
vation in  a  cough  and  her  handkerchief.  Adrian  saw  and  smiled. 
"Everything  going  splendidly."  The  worthy  baronet  and  his  wife 
were  "in  it"  all  right;  their  purgatory  would  be  to  be  in  any  way 
out  of  it. 

§  3 

How  glad  the  couple  were  to  be  alone  again !  With  what  pleas- 
ure they  turned  to  each  other  after  this!  On  the  whole,  Adrian 
was  not  sorry  they  had  visited  Ash-hangar,  if  only  because  the 
encounter  with  the  Freemans — and  what  the  Freemans  were  and 
what  the  Freemans  stood  for — was  the  one  thing  they  needed  to 
set  off  *he  perfection  of  their  own  solitary  communion. 

And  in  a  moment  they  were  lovers.  The  slight  dissonance  of  the 
morning  was  obliterated.  Rosemary  put  her  arm  through  his,  and 
when  he  stooped  to  kiss  her  looked  up  with  that  in  her  eyes  which 
he  had  rarely  sought  in  vain  during  these  last  weeks.  The  Free- 
mans were  as  though  they  had  not  been.  The  mood  of  prevarica- 
tion, the  mood  of  laughter,  the  mood  of  petulance,  the  mood  of 
mischief  had  given  place  in  a  moment  to  their  all-absorbing  interest 
in  and  for  each  other.  They  held  hands  and  walked  slowly. 

They  took  the  road  which  climbs  that  wooded  range  of  hills 
known  as  the  Bledlow  Ridge.  Gradually  the  woods  began  to  en- 
croach upon  and  encircle  them.  At  last  they  were  lost  in  the 
woods — those  beechwoods  so  deep  and  dark  that  even  the  westering 
sunbeams  scarcely  entered  in.  They  branched  off  tne  by-road  and 
took  a  path  that  led  into  uttermost  labyrinths.  It  was  strange 
there  and  very  quiet.  They  seemed  to  recover  something  of  the 
Arden  spirit.  Yet  was  it  not  quite  that,  for,  after  all,  the  wheel  of 


200  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Fate  was  turning,  turning.  Something  inexorable  waited — some 
Unseen  Presence  that  stood  behind  them  watching  from  the 
shadows. 

And  they  were  happy  as  most  wanderers  in  lonely  places.  They 
were  utterly  at  one.  No  need  to  try  and  explain  himself  now. 
They  felt  rather  than  spoke.  They  looked  what  they  felt  and 
knew  all  without  uttering. 

After  walking  some  distance  they  heard  a  sound  as  of  a  wood- 
cutter's axe  and,  coming  to  a  clearing,  found  two  men  and  a  boy, 
cutting,  shaping,  and  turning  wood  on  a  lathe.  All  around  were 
logs  cut  into  even  lengths  and  the  giant  unhewn  trunks  of  beech- 
trees.  In  the  centre  of  the  clearing  was  a  rough  wooden  shanty 
covered  with  tarpaulin  which  contained  piles  of  white  neatly- 
shaped  pegs  or  sticks.  Outside  the  shanty  a  fire  crackled,  giving 
out  the  delicious  scent  of  green  wood  burning.  From  this  rose  a 
thin  wisp  of  blue  smoke  which  somehow  suggested  the  coming  of 
winter  to  that  still  leafy  place. 

Sitting  on  a  heap  of  logs,  they  watched  the  three  at  work  for 
some  minutes.  The  woodmen  evidently  represented  three  genera- 
tions— an  old  bearded  man  of  great  height  and  breadth,  a  middle- 
aged  swarthy  man  with  blue  eyes  and  reddish-brown  cheeks,  a  raw- 
boned  sturdy  youth. 

The  old  man  announced  that  they  were  making  chair-legs,  as 
they  had  always  done,  as  their  forefathers  had  done  for  generations, 
as  these  three  would  always  do.  They  lived,  he  said,  at  a  place 
called  Flowers'  Folly  in  the  woods  two  miles  away. 

After  a  while,  having  asked  Adrian  the  hour,  he  turned  to  his 
companions : 

"Come  along!  Give  over!  Time  we  went  home  to  tea."  And 
bidding  the  strange  couple  good  night  and  picking  up  their  baskets 
they  passed  out  of  sight  among  the  beech-trunks. 

When  their  footfalls  on  the  crinkling  leaf-carpet  had  died  away, 
Rosemary  said: 

"I  wish  I  could  be  just  like  those  men,  Adrian — calm  and  quiet 
and  very  simple  and  happy.  And  make  chair-legs  all  my  life.  And 
never  leave  these  woods,  but  watch  the  colours  fade  out  of  the 


LAST  DAY  201 

tree-tops  as  they  are  fading  now  and  watch  for  the  leaves  to  come 
back  again  in  the  spring.  And  I  would  like  to  live  where  those 
men  live — at  Flowers'  Folly.  And  I  would  like  to  have  just  you 
with  me — nobody  else.  And  I  would  like  never  to  know  anything 
of  the  world  outside  or  about  the  horrid  things  in  it,  but  only  about 
the  nice  and  beautiful  things — the  squirrels  and  birds  and  the  open 
sky.  .  .  .  Adrian,  is  that  possible?" 

"One  cannot  turn  one's  back  on  life,  dear  heart.  One's  got  to 
stand  up  to  it  and  face  it — or  it  will  find  one  out  in  the  end." 

"The  terrible  thing  is  I'm  not  sure,  I'm  not  sure  of  myself.  I 
wish,  oh !  I  wish  I  knew  myself.  .  .  .  While  I'm  with  you  I'm  all 
right,  I'm  safe.  .  .  .  Then — I  don't  know.  I'm  like  the  weather. 
In  some  ways  I'm  like  Gina.  I  want  to  be  like  Faith." 

"Silly  little  thing!" 

"Yes,  I  know,  Adrian,  but  still — I'm  afraid." 

"Afraid!    Afraid  of  what?" 

"I  dunno.     I  think — of  waking  up  different  in  the  morning." 

"My  foolish  one!  We  mustn't  let  ourselves  get  depressed — 
now  above  all." 

"Is  it  very  weak  of  me,  Adrian?    What  do  you  think?" 

She  spoke  with  a  seriousness  such  as  he  had  not  known  in  her 
before.  He  looked  at  her,  wondering  and  vaguely  disturbed. 

Then  his  arm  stole  around  her. 


They  presently  resumed  their  wandering  along  the  woodland 
path.  They  would  not  hurry,  feeling  their  hour  too  brief.  Shad- 
ows gathered  round  them,  lay  across  their  path,  followed  them, 
crept  after  them,  dogged  them  like  wolves  that  follow  travellers 
in  the  Russian  wilderness.  A  jay  mocked  them,  chattering,  from 
the  depths  of  a  thicket  of  birch  and  hazel.  A  green  woodpecker 
flew  laughing  away.  Cloudy  blue  of  wood-pigeons  glanced  against 
the  bronzing  yellow  of  the  turning  leaf.  Eyes  watched  them  from 
the  shadows — eyes  of  squirrels  from  the  tree-boles,  eyes  of  wood- 
mice  and  brown  owls,  and  those  of  other  darting,  rustling  things. 


202  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

Oblivious  of  time  and  space  though  they  were,  wrapt  in  their 
dream,  dimly  apprehensive  perhaps  of  the  fleeting  quality  of  dreams 
— it  was  as  though  they  clung  desperately  to  one  another. 

It  was  only  when  they  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  woodland 
through  which  they  had  just  passed,  and  were  dazzled  by  the  trans- 
verse beams  of  the  setting  sun,  that  they  realised  night  was  at  hand. 

They  rested — at  her  suggestion — on  the  trunk  of  a  blasted  pine, 
a  deep-tinted  sunbeam  warming  it  to  a  rich  red,  kindling  to  splen- 
dour the  pale  gold  of  her  hair.  A  plantation  of  larch  and  young 
pine  grew  near  and  a  faint,  fragrant  scent  came  from  it. 

"What  a  quiet,  beautiful  place!"  she  murmured. 

He,  indicating  the  log  upon  which  they  sat,  said: 

"Yes,  but  they  evidently  get  storms.  What  a  sad  thing  a  fallen 
tree  is,  Rosie!" 

Each  was  thinking  of  the  morrow.  Years  after  he  recalled  her 
expression.  It  was  that  of  a  tired  child. 

§5 

For  all  their  weariness  they  walked  at  a  rapid  pace  along  the 
lane  whose  whiteness  shone  thinly  through  the  dusk.  They  were 
lost,  yet  knew  that  the  lane  must  bring  them  to  some  farm  or 
village.  At  last  they  came  to  a  green  where  an  inn  light  shone 
among  a  group  of  cottages.  Under  the  light  Adrian  looked  at  his 
watch  and  perceived  that  it  was  already  past  the  hour  when  the 
last  train  left  the  wayside  station  towards  which  they  had  hitherto 
bent  their  steps.  They  did  not  even  know  where  they  were. 

Entering  the  inn,  he  found  a  number  of  men  drinking.  There 
appeared,  however,  a  woman  with  a  broad  plain  country  face  who, 
in  consultation  with  her  husband,  informed  them  that  their  only 
course  was  to  walk  to  a  junction  and  market-town  five  miles  distant, 
where  a  train  to  London  might  certainly  be  obtained.  Gig  or  car- 
riage was  not  to  be  had  in  that  remote  place,  which  was  but  a 
hamlet,  far  even  from  a  main  road.  Supper,  however,  she  could 
provide — ham  and  eggs,  cheese,  and  butter,  if  that  would  suffice. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait  for  their  meal  in  the  inn-parlour, 


L4ST  DAY  203 

which  smelt  cleanly  of  beer,  its  faded  yellow-papered  walls  cov- 
ered with  immense  photographs  of  members  of  the  family  and 
wedding-groups.  A  piano  stood  in  the  corner.  In  the  fireplace  was 
a  little  coloured  Japanese  umbrella.  The  landlady  removed  this, 
lit  a  fire,  placed  an  oil-lamp  in  the  centre  of  the  white  cloth,  ran 
in  and  out  with  implements  for  the  supper,  and  every  now  and 
again  glanced  at  the  couple  seated  on  the  horsehair  sofa,  curiously 
and  not  unkindly. 

They  sat,  hand  in  hand,  like  two  waifs — insufferably  happy, 
gloriously  alone. 

During  the  meal  they  spoke  of  ordinary  things — of  how  they 
would  write  to  one  another  every  single  day,  of  what  Rosemary 
would  send  Adrian  for  Christmas — in  case  he  did  not  come  home 
before — of  the  knitting  lessons  she  was  going  to  have  so  that  she 
might  make  him  a  comforter,  of  when  he  would  get  leave,  of  the 
arrangements  for  having  the  wedding  during  that  leave,  and  of 
what  chance  he  stood  of  obtaining  a  month  for  the  honeymoon. 

They  then  found  themselves  out  in  the  darkness  again — a  dark- 
ness that,  relieved  by  starlight,  speedily  became  familiar.  Re- 
freshed-by  their  meal,  exhilarated  by  the  frosty  stillness  of  the 
October  night,  they  travelled  at  good  speed.  Rosemary  declared 
she  was  not  tired  now — was  enjoying  the  walk  more  than  she 
would  have  liked  driving. 

"We  shall  have  longer  together." 

"If  only  we  had  all  the  nights  and  days  before  us!  .  .  ." 

They  passed  through  woods  again.  Owls  hissed,  whistled,  and 
from  solitary  trees  out  in  the  fields  uttered  their  mellow  and 
despondent  three-syllable  cry.  They  heard  the  tremulous  wailings 
of  plover  and  once,  they  thought — though  it  was  early  yet  for  that 
sound — the  bark  of  a  dog-fox.  They  passed  cottages  whose  lighted 
windows  were  fretted  with  the  trailing  limbs  of  plants,  suggesting 
a  warm  and  snug  interior.  They  passed  distant  farms  from  which 
the  same  warm  light  came.  They  were  barked  at  by  dogs.  The 
trees,  the  great  wayside  elms  and  oaks,  overlooked  them.  The 
ashes  almost  touched  them — and  the  silver  birches  seemed  to  smile. 

They  came  presently  to  a  wide  main  road  and  from  thence  the 


204  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

way  lay  straight.  Long  vistas  of  it  stretched  ahead.  A  broad  heath 
they  came  to  where  a  light  breeze  sang  in  the  telegraph  wires  which 
gave  them  a  sense  of  infinite  loneliness  and  infinite  space.  Cross- 
roads they  came  to,  with  a  white  sign-post  pointing  four  different 
ways,  and  there  rested. 

Strange  songs  the  breeze  must  have  sung  to  them  as  they  sat  in 
the  long  grass  by  the  wayside,  his  arms  about  her,  her  head  resting 
upon  his  shoulder.  Strange  things  they  must  have  whispered  one 
to  another,  and  strange  those  things  that  wind  and  grass  and  fields 
and  the  watching  night  have  whispered  to  hearts  of  lovers  since  the 
world  began! 

Rosemary  confessed  herself  weary  now,  and  when  they  plodded 
on  once  more  she  took  Adrian's  arm,  leaning  her  full  weight  upon 
it.  They  came  at  last  to  the  summit  of  a  high  hill,  and  saw 
beneath  them  stray,  half-veiled  lights,  and  many  miles  to  the  east- 
ward, an  uncertain  reflection  that  they  knew  to  be  London. 

§6 

It  was  long  after  midnight  when  the  train  rumbled  into  the  vast 
emptiness  of  Paddington  Station. 

They  were  too  tired  to  talk  as  they  drove  to  Grosvenor  Man- 
sions. They  had  been  too  tired  to  talk  in  the  train.  After  all  they 
were  very  near  the  end  now — and  there  was  no  more  to  be  said. 

Like  burglars  they  crept  up  the  steps  of  the  flats,  though  their 
careful  footfalls  resounded  hollowly  from  the  stone.  It  was  very 
dark.  Adrian  lit  a  match  and  Rosemary  put  a  finger  to  her  lips. 
When  they  came  to  the  fourth  floor,  they  paused,  the  heart  of  each 
thumping  furiously  as  they  pressed  together. 

Adrian  whispered: 

"This  is  good-bye!" 

"Not  yet?" 

"Yes,  Rosie — I  must  leave  you  here." 

"Come  in!"  she  whispered. 

"I  can't!     I  mustn't!     It  wouldn't  do." 

"Why  not?    Mamma's  asleep  ages  ago.     She  knew  we  weren't 


LAST  DAY  205 

coming  back  till  any  hour ;  she  won't  worry  about  us.  She'll  never 
wake.  .  .  .  Besides — it's  all  right.  Come  on — only  be  quiet!" 

They  crept  into  the  flat.  Adrian  had  to  light  a  match  before  he 
could  find  the  switch,  and  Rosemary  gave  a  subdued  laugh. 

In  the  pink-and-blue  drawing-room,  she  took  off  her  hat  and 
coat.  There  were  lemonade  and  sandwiches  on  a  table.  Turning 
out  the  electric  light,  they  sat  side  by  side  upon  that  sofa  where  two 
months  before  they  had  become  lovers  once  more. 

§  7 

How  the  night  passed  neither  of  them  could  have  said.  Both 
were  utterly  weary.  Adrian  remembered  the  light  of  a  street- 
lamp  casting  a  faint  reflected  glimmer  on  the  opposite  wall.  They 
heard  the  wailing  of  cats  in  the  mews  outside  and  all  those  other 
sounds  that  in  the  small  hours  arise  from  sleeping  London.  He 
felt  her  warm  body  close  to  his.  Their  last  common  thought  was 
of  something  impending,  something  that  overpowered  their  con- 
sciousness and  disturbed  their  dreams,  some  vague,  dominating, 
tyrannical  threat. 

Then  they  must  have  slept.  But  it  was  the  same  waking,  sleep- 
ing thought  that  after  some  time  caused  Adrian  to  start  up.  He 
looked  at  his  watch  by  the  faint  light  of  the  street-lamp.  It  was 
five  o'clock.  He  had  no  time  to  spare  if  he  was  to  report  at 
Aldershot  by  nine.  He  must  first  go  home,  change,  and  collect 
his  things. 

At  his  ear,  he  heard  Rosemary's  light  regular  breathing,  that  told 
him  she  still  slept. 

Should  he  wake  her  or  leave  her  as  she  was  .  .  .  and  spare  them 
both? 

But  as  though  in  her  very  sleeping  she  had  divined  his  thought, 
she  started  up,  with  an  uneasy  dissatisfied  sigh. 

"What  is  it?"  she  murmured. 

"Darling.  ...  I  must  go." 

She  shivered. 

"What?"    She  was  still  but  half  awake. 


206  Wd^  OF  REV ELATION 

"It's  time  for  me  to  go." 

"Going?  .  .  .  Where?" 

"Aldershot." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say — you're  leaving  me?"  There  was  sud- 
den apprehension  in  her  voice. 

"I've  to  catch  the  7.30  train.  It's  past  five  already.  .  .  .  Be- 
sides, the  house  will  soon  be  waking." 

"Oh,  but  you  can't!  .  .  .  Stay!    Stay!  .  .  .  ddrian!" 

She  was  fully  awake  now  and  terribly  frightened. 

For  several  minutes  they  clung  to  each  other. 

Then  he  heard  her  stifled,  tumultuous  weeping  and  felt  the  tears 
falling  one  by  one  upon  his  hands. 

"You're  going  .  .  .  and  it  will  never  be  the  same  again  .  .  . 
and  you  will  never  come  back." 

"I  must  go,"  he  whispered.    "But  I  shall  come  back." 

"You  will  be  killed " 

"No." 

Sob  after  sob  broke  from  her  and  was  crushed  against  the  sleeve 
of  his  coat.  It  racked  him;  it  tore  the  inmost  fibre  of  him.  He 
had  never  known  her  weep  before;  he  had  never  known  weeping 
like  that. 

".  .  .  and  you  will  love  me — always?" 

"Dear  heart — you  know  that." 

"Whatever  happens — always?" 

"For  ever." 

She  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  drew  his  face  down  to  hers, 
and  kissed  him  frenziedly. 

"Oh,  Adrian!     Adrian!  come  back  to  me  or  ...  I  am  lost." 

Day  peered  in  at  the  window. 

He  gently  disengaged  her  arms  and  crept  on  tip-toe  from  the 
room. 


END  OF  PART  THE  SECOND. 


PART  THE  THIRD: 
TRAVAIL 


And  in  those  days  shall  men  seek  death,  and  shall  not 
find  it;  and  shall  desire  to  diet  and  death  shall  flee 
from  them. 

REVELATION  IX,  6. 


CHAPTER  I 
Winter  in  Northern  France 


ADRIAN  KNOYLE  rejoined  his  old  battalion  in  France  during  the 
last  week  of  October,  1915.  He  found  it  lying  in  billets  at  the 
small  town  of  Lillers.  This  rather  wretched  place  comes  within 
the  coal  and  industrial  area  of  Bethune,  from  which  it  is  distant 
seven  miles,  and  the  character  of  which  it  shares,  in  drabness, 
squalor,  and  featureless  poverty. 

There  had  been  days  of  rain.  Grey,  rusty-black,  and  mud- 
yellow  were  the  streets  through  which  motor-lorries,  horse-waggons, 
guns,  motor-cars,  and  road-stained  bodies  of  troops  ceaselessly 
passed,  while  the  pavements  were  crowded  with  foot-passengers, 
dejected-looking  French  civilians  and  British  soldiers.  Grey,  rusty- 
black,  and  mud-yellow  were  the  fields  beyond,  intersected  by  dykes 
and  ditches,  poplar-edged,  or  lined  with  pollarded  willows.  Pop- 
lars stood  four-square  drearily  around  water-logged  meadows 
which  in  summer  perhaps  contained  a  pool.  The  cottages  in  which 
the  troops  billeted  were  built  of  lath-and-plaster  with  thatched  or 
tiled  roofs;  the  infrequent  farmhouses  of  sodden  brick  were  dark, 
cramped  and  comfortless. 

Everywhere  —  water.  Water  lay  stagnant  in  the  meadows,  water 
glistened  beside  the  narrow  roads,  water  stank  in  the  farm  court- 
yards, and  water  filled  the  ditches  which,  in  lieu  of  hedges  or  fences, 
divided  the  fields. 

Such  was  the  country  to  which  Adrian,  with  six  brother-officers 
and  some  two  hundred  men,  came  in  pouring  rain  —  a  rain  that  for 
many  days  continued  to  pour. 

They  found  the  battalion  scattered  on  the  outskirts  of  the  little 
town.  It  was  resting,  re-equipping,  reorganising  as  best  it  might, 

209 


210  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

and  licking  its  wounds  after  the  great  Battle  of  Loos,  in  which  it 
had  borne  a  glorious  part,  and  the  subsequent  bitter  fighting  for 
the  Hohenzollern  Redoubt.  On  handing  over  his  draft,  Adrian 
was  posted  to  his  old  company — Captain  Sinclair's — as  also,  at  his 
request,  was  the  young  officer,  Arthur  Cornwallis,  whose  friend- 
ship he  had  made  in  England.  Adrian  tired,  mud-stained  and  wet, 
unlatched  the  door  of  a  particularly  wretched-looking  farmhouse 
and  beheld — Eric. 

The  latter  was  little  changed.  He  was  pink-and-white  and  spic- 
and-span,  with  well-brushed  hair,  and  moustache;  he  exhaled  the 
scent  of  eau-de-Cologne  and  fresh  soap.  Only  in  his  voice  and 
manner  was  a  new  note  of  authority. 

Their  joy  at  seeing  one  another  was  expressed  in  an  uncivil 
epithet  and  handshake. 

After  introductions  between  Cornwallis  and  Eric  on  the  one 
hand,  and  Adrian  and  a  thick-set  burly  subaltern  named  George 
Walker  on  the  other,  Eric  led  the  way  to  the  narrow  whitewashed 
room  which  the  two  friends  were  to  share  together.  He  lent 
Adrian  some  dry  things  into  which  to  change. 

"Well,  old  boy,  and  how's  everybody  and  everything  in  England  ? 
How's  yourself?" 

Adrian  briefly  related  the  somewhat  precipitate  circumstances 
under  which  he  had  come  out  to  France,  saying  little  of  the  more 
personal  aspects  of  the  case,  which  he  felt  should  be  the  subject  of 
a  longer  and  quieter  talk.  He  told  his  friend  all  the  news  he  had 
about  Faith  and  handed  him  a  pulpy  mud-bespattered  letter. 

"Ah!  old  Faith!"  was  the  latter's  only  comment. 

Eric  referred  to  Adrian's  handling  of  the  medical  authorities  in 
these  terms:  "You  were  a  mug!  You  ought  to  be  in  London  now 
having  tea  with  Rosemary.  Asking  for  trouble,  I  call  it,  to  apply 
to  come  out  to  this  God-damned  country.  I  ask  you — look  at  it!" 
He  made  a  gesture  of  disgust  at  the  prospect,  visible  through  the 
window.  "However,  you  know  what  I  feel  about  it,  my  dear 
fellow.  I'm  delighted  to  have  you  back  again.  It's  been  a  bit 
trying  sometimes  on  one's  own." 

"How's  the  company?" 


WINTER  IN  NORTHERN  FRANCE  211 

"Oh!  The  company's  just  beginning  to  sit  up  and  take  notice 
again.  It's  had  a  coarse  time  lately.  That  Hohenzollern  place!" 

He  went  on  to  relate  some  of  the  experiences  through  which  they 
had  passed. 

"That  bit  of  ribbon  looks  very  becoming,"  Adrian  remarked  in 
reference  to  Eric's  newly-won  Military  Cross  as  they  went  into  the 
kitchen  for  tea. 

"Yes,"  the  other  replied,  "it  adorns  the  manly  breast,  doesn't  it  ? 
They  gave  it  me  for  not  being  able  to  run  quite  so  fast  as  the  rest 
at  Hill  70." 


§2 

His  fellow-subalterns,  Walker  and  Cornwallis,  Adrian  found, 
presented  as  great  a  contrast  physically  and  mentally  as  could  well 
be  imagined.  Walker  was  in  every  way  large,  with  a  red  face 
expressive  of  good  humour,  and  a  sandy  moustache.  There  was  no 
mistaking  him,  indeed — nothing  subtle  or  diffident  here.  His 
physical  manner,  his  loud  laugh  spoke  for  him.  His  conversation 
was  hardly  less  Rabelaisian  than  the  manner  of  it;  it  was  freely 
bespattered  with  oaths. 

Arthur  Cornwallis,  on  the  other  hand,  with  his  angular  figure, 
his  pale,  bespectacled  face  and  dreamy  look,  his  thin  sensitive 'lips, 
and  nervous  mannerisms,  belonged  to  a  type  which  Oxford  pro- 
duces (or  used  to  produce).  At  dinner  that  night  Cornwallis 
hardly  uttered  a  word,  but  looked  shyly  down  at  his  plate.  Walker, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  very  noisy,  drank  copiously  and  told  stories 
of  the  front  line.  (Adrian  suspected  him  of  trying  to  "put  the 
wind  up"  Cornwallis.) 

"I  waited  for  the  blighter,"  he  told,  "morning  after  morning  at 
stand-to  I  waited.  But  he  never  showed  his  ruddy  head  again.  At 
last  I  got  fed  up  with  waiting,  so  just  before  daylight  I  crawled 
over  with  my  runner,  and  there  the  little  swine  was  a-peepin'  over 
his  perishin'  trench.  Well,  I  out  with  my  shooter  and  pipped  him 
right  off — and  I'm  damned  if  another  of  the  blighters  didn't 


212  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

show  his  ruddy  head.  Well,  I  pipped  him  too.  Oh,  that  was  a 
morning — some  morning!  Ye  Gods!  Ha!  ha!" 

"Reckless  fellow,  isn't  he?"  murmured  Eric,  and,  "For  Christ's 
sake  shut  up,  George!  You  bore  me." 

The  conversation  turned  to  a  different  subject,  but  Walker  again 
led  it. 

"If  you're  expecting  to  pick  up  any  little  bits  of  fluff  out  here, 
Knoyle,"  he  said  demonstratively,  "you've  come  to  the  wrong  place 
— the  wrong  part  of  the  country,  anyhow.  I've  never  seen  such  a 
lot  of  frowsy  old  hags.  You  should  have  seen  'em  in  Lillers 
market-place  yesterday — well,  I  never!  But  I  don't  mind  telling 
you" — he  lowered  his  voice  to  a  confidential  key — "that  day  I  went 
to  Bethune  I  found  an  estaminet — a  filthy  little  place  it  was,  too — 
where  .  .  .  ,"  and  he  proceeded  to  relate  various  uninteresting 
details.  "That  was  a  bit  of  all-right,  wasn't  it?" 

Everybody  except  Cornwallis  laughed.  And  in  this  strain  the 
conversation  continued. 

That  night  when  the  two  friends  were  creeping  into  their 
sleeping-bags,  Eric  expressed  the  opinion  that  George  Walker  was 
"not  such  a  bad  chap  as  you  might  think." 

"Only  he  will  talk  'shop'  and  he  can't  talk  sense.  But  it  isn't 
all  gas  with  him.  He  really  does  like  being  up  in  the  line.  He 
runs  about  all  day  with  a  gun  and  at  night  pots  imaginary  Ger- 
mans with  a  Verey  pistol.  He  doesn't  kill  much,  I  must  admit, 
but  it's  what  they  call  'the  spirit  of  the  offensive,'  isn't  it?  You 
make  yourself  a  damned  nuisance  to  everybody  and  then  you're 
given  a  V.C.  .  .  .  That  lad  Cornwallis,  though,  doesn't  look  the 
sort  to  stand  much  knocking  about?" 

Adrian  agreed,  adding: 

"Persevere  with  him,  Eric.  Don't  be  prejudiced  and  profes- 
sional and — er — ultra-English  with  him.  It  won't  pay.  The 
Colonel  can  do  all  that.  Let's  be  human  about  his  sort  of  people 
in  this  company — now  you're  running  it.  I  don't  suppose  he'll  be 
a  success  any  more  than  I  shall  be.  He's  hopelessly  unpractical, 
extremely  well-meaning,  keen  in  his  own  way,  but  I  should  say, 
dreading  the  whole  business  like  the  very  devil.  I  know  what  I 


WINTER  IN  NORTHERN  FRANCE  213 

should  go  through,  joining  again,  if  you  weren't  in  this  battalion. 
Nothing  can  make  one  feel  so  utterly  selfless  and  alone  as  the 
Army  if  it  chooses." 

"P'raps  you're  right.    I  don't  care  what  he  is  as  long  as  he  tries." 

"They  gave  him  a  pretty  rotten  time  at  Aldershot.  He  was 
always  losing  his  name  in  the  orderly  room  for  doing  most  things 
wrong,  being  late  for  parade,  having  his  buttons  undone,  giving 
the  word  of  command  on  the  wrong  foot,  etc. — playing  the  imita- 
tion soldier,  in  fact,  rather  worse  than  most  of  us.  Partly  his  own 
fault,  chiefly  nervousness.  But  he'll  do  his  best.  And,  after  all, 
it's  not  quite  the  same  out  here  as  at  Aldershot." 

"I  won't  curse  him.  Steele  and  Langley  can  do  that,"  Eric 
laughed.  "They'll  lose  no  time  about  it,  bet  your  life." 

"If  you  don't  break  his  heart  he  may  be  some  use.  It's  the 
wrong  way,  the  professional  way,  in  a  citizen  army.  I'm  certain 
of  that.  All  very  well  in  peace  time  where  you've  got  a  lot  of 
people  of  the  same  stamp  who  mean  to  make  it  their  business  in 
life.  But  out  here  .  .  .  different  altogether.  Nobody's  gone  into 
the  thing  for  fun,  have  they  ?  One  takes  it  for  granted  that  every- 
one's doing  his  best.  To  get  a  lot  of  blokes  together  drawn  from 
every  line  of  life  and  temperamentally  as  different  as  chalk  from 
cheese  from  the  regulation  type,  and  treat  them  as  the  regulation 
type  seems  to  me  the  shortest  way  of  making  bad  soldiers.  What 
do  you  think?" 

"I  agree  with  you  up  to  a  point,  though  one  must  preserve  some 
sort  of  uniformity  in  a  battalion,  especially  among  the  junior 
officers.  I  warn  you  that  under  Steele  you'll  find  this  show's  run 
on  very  professional  lines.  Of  course  he's  a  good  soldier." 

"I  know  he  is,  but  that's  not  everything.  He's  dealing  with 
individual  human  beings  now — not  with  a  type.  It's  a  different 
sort  of  army  now  from  the  one  we  came  out  to  last  January,  for 
instance.  As  to  what  you  say  about  uniformity  in  principle  and 
method — agreed.  But  it  seems  to  me  one  must  do  in  a  volunteer 
army  by  tact  and  reason,  what  in  your  peace-time  professional 
army  was  done  mechanically  and  often  stupidly.  After  all  the 
main  object  is  to  make  efficient  officers.  Of  course,  I  don't  know 


214  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Steele,  except  by  reputation  as — rather  a  Prussian.  In  which  case 
Arthur  is  in  for  a  bad  time." 

"Well,  the  lad  will  get  his  chance  in  this  company.  ...  I 
rather  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Faith,  though.  My  dear  fellow, 
the  solemn  fact  of  the  matter  is — my  future  happiness  is  bound  up 
with  that  young  woman.  I  assure  you  that  she  is  exceptional. 
She's  got  principles,  and  all;  she  is  religious.  Am  I?  I'm  not 
good  enough  for  her.  She  has  an  uncomfortable  way  of  making 
me  feel  she  expects  something  of  me — I  don't  know  on  earth  what. 
Of  course,  I'm  a  damned  fool — not  moral  or  clever  or  anything. 
But,  tell  me,  as  a  friend,  do  you  think  she  cares  a  tinker's  cuss  for 
Eric  Sinclair?  Or— what?" 

"My  dear  Eric,  she's  extremely  fond  of  you.  That  I'll  swear 
to." 

"Then,  will  she  ever  show  it — in  any  practical  way?  .  .  .  Look 
here !  This  is  what  happens.  You  remember  that  time  at  Arden  ? 
I  put  the  fatal  question.  She  replies  affably  but  firmly:  'I  can't 
make  up  my  mind.  Let's  talk  it  over  again  in  a  few  months.' 
When  I  am  on  leave  I  only  see  her  once.  I  go  up  to  Scotland  and 
she  cannot  get  away  from  the  hospital — or  says  she  can't.  Now 
I  go  on  leave  again  soon  after  Christmas " 

"Have  it  out  with  her  again.  I  lay  a  fiver  to  one  the  answer 
is  in  the  affirmative,  as  they  say." 

"Done.     But  why  do  you  think  so?" 

"Because — I  know  Faith.  I  know  her  in  some  ways  better  than 
you  do.  Faith  is  slow  and  careful  and  not  very  emotional,  and 
never  does  things  on  impulse — like  Rosemary  for  instance.  There's 
method  in  everything  she  does.  She  thinks.  She  weighs  and  judges. 
.  .  .  You  see,  that  girl's  got  a  head  as  well  as  a  heart." 

"But  still — why  so  positive?" 

Because  I  know — I'm  sure." 

They  were  in  that  mood  so  delightful  between  friends  after  a 
long  separation  when  confidence  begets  confidence  and  intimate 
conversation  comes  as  easily  to  the  lips  as  to  the  thoughts.  And 
Adrian,  for  his  part,  was  in  a  mind  to  tell  Eric  of  his  earlier  dis- 
illusionments,  of  his  old  doubts  and  fears  regarding  Rosemary  that 


WINTER  IN  NORTHERN  FRANCE  215 

were  now  finally  set  at  rest ;  of  the  affaire  Upton.  Yet  something 
restrained  him.  Was  it  not  after  all  better  left  unsaid?  Would 
it  be  loyal — even  to  tell  Eric?  He  disliked,  too,  mentioning  the 
very  name  of  Upton.  So  the  matter  remained  unbroached  when, 
turning  over  in  their  sleeping-bags — each  with  the  fragrance  of  a 
certain  memory  as  his  last  waking  thought — they  fell  asleep. 

§3 

Everybody  felt  confident  of  a  long  rest  after  the  recent  heavy 
fighting,  but  very  soon  rumours  began  to  circulate  of  a  move  north- 
ward into  winter  trenches.  And  it  was  not  long  before  these 
rumours  materialised.  Some  forecasted  Ypres,  others  Armen- 
tieres,  but  the  matter  was  resolved  when  definite  orders  came  that 
on  a  certain  morning  early  in  November  the  whole  Division  would 
move  into  the  Merville  district.  On  the  whole  everyone  was 
pleased.  It  was  a  water-logged  country,  of  course,  but  that  descrip- 
tion applied  to  the  whole  of  Flanders  in  winter;  Laventie  was 
reputed  to  be  still  a  quiet  part  of  the  line ;  the  rearward  billets  were 
known* to  be  good;  and — well  anything  was  better  than  the  Ypres 
Salient. 

All  were,  in  any  case,  glad  to  leave  Lillers  with  its  associations  of 
interminable  rain,  damp  billets,  and  liquid  mud.  The  march 
tended  away  from  the  colliery  region,  passing  through  a  country 
remarkable  for  a  peculiar  featureless  ugliness.  Swinging  along 
side  by  side  at  the  head  of  the  company,  Adrian  and  Eric  agreed 
that  they  knew  nothing  comparable  to  it  in  England — not  even  in 
the  Midlands  or  the  industrial  North.  Drab  field  succeeded  drab 
field,  each  consisting  of  greyish  upturned  loam  that  looked  like  the 
refuse  of  many  factories.  The  roads  themselves,  poplar-lined  and 
dead  straight,  were  of  rough  pave,  very  tiring  to  the  feet.  Rows 
of  sodden-looking  cottages  with  occasional  brightly-coloured  unsub- 
stantial-looking villas  comprised  the  villages,  new-looking  farm- 
steads flaunting  scarlet  roofs  appeared  among  sparse  orchards.  The 
dull  November  landscape  seemed  to  reflect  the  dull  and  windy 
November  sky. 


216  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

It  was  shortly  after  the  second  halt  that  Arthur  Cornwallis  "lost 
his  name"  for  the  first  time.  Up  and  down  the  column  rode  Lieut.- 
Colonel  Steele  accompanied  by  his  adjutant,  Captain  Langley. 
The  former  was  a  square  thickset  man  with  a  heavy  dark  moustache 
and  coarse  features,  that  bore  the  unmistakable  stamp  of  ill- 
temper.  Allied  with  these  characteristics  was  a  certain  joviality, 
and  a  loud  voice.  His  adjutant  was  tall  and  slim,  with  a  vapid  and 
rather  dissipated  face,  who  sat  his  horse  well. 

"Mr.  Cornwallis!" 

The  young  officer  raised  his  eyes  from  the  direction  of  his  boots. 

"Sir!" 

"Please  look  after  the  rear  of  your  platoon.  It's  all  over  the 
place.  You're  not  put  there  to  dream,  you  know." 

"Sir." 

Mr.  Cornwallis  dashed  half  the  length  of  the  company,  urging 
the  men  to  "keep  closed  up"  and  "march  by  the  right,"  whereupon 
all  the  platoon-sergeants  and  all  the  junior  sergeants  and  even  many 
of  the  corporals  set  up  a  loud  chorus  of  adjuration — a  regular 
shouting-match.  Their  keenness,  at  any  rate,  should  not  be  im- 
pugned. 

"Close  up  there!  Keep  together!  Can't  you  hear?  By  your 
right,  man — no!  your  other  right.  Wandering  along  like  a  lot  of 
old  women  .  .  ." 

Thus  the  Company  Sergeant-Major  with  his  fiery  complexion 
and  yellow  waxed  moustache. 

"You  can't  march!  You  can't  march — not  one  of  you!  You 
want  a  month  on  the  square,  some  o'  you,  that's  what  you  want! 
Now,  then — pick  up  the  step!  It's  not  a  goose-step — it's  a  man's 
step.  And  take  that  smile  off  j^our  face — number  three  from  the 
left  in  the  last  section  of  fours,  or  you'll  find  yerself  in  the  guard- 
room when  we  get  there.  ...  I  want  to  see  you  men  march.  You 
walk  along,  you  tumble  along — anyhow!  What  d'you  think  you 
look  like,  I  wonder?  Soldiers,  did  somebody  say?  A  lot  of  skivvies 
out  of  a  job,  /  should  say." 

Cornwallis,  with  humiliation  depicted  on  his  face,  fell  to  the 
rear  again.  The  men  smiled. 


WINTER  IN  NORTHERN  FRANCE  217 

And  he  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  Colonel  Steele  remark  to 
Captain  Sinclair: 

"You  must  look  after  that  new  subaltern  of  yours,  Eric;  he's 
idle." 

Then  they  were  marching  up  the  long,  narrow  Merville  street, 
across  the  railway  line,  over  the  canal-bridge,  and  so  with  band 
playing  through  the  market-square,  soon  after  midday.  Billets 
were  found  in  farm  buildings  north  of  the  town,  Eric  Sinclair  and 
his  officers  being  assigned  to  a  comparatively  up-to-date  farmhouse 
with  a  small  though  comfortable  living-room  opening  hopefully  on 
a  midden,  and  two  bedrooms.  Here  the  company  mess  was  estab- 
lished. Walker  and  Cornwallis  were  to  sleep  at  neighbouring  farms. 
Coming  and  going,  it  was  to  be  the  home  of  all  of  them  for  some 
time. 

But  they  were  not  left  undisturbed  long.  No  sooner  were  all 
comfortably  settled  than  company-commanders  received  orders  to 
go  up  and  inspect  the  new  line  of  trenches  which,  it  was  announced, 
would  be  taken  over  in  a  week's  time.  Every  morning  there  was  a 
parade  for  drill,  gas-drill,  musketry  and  so  forth.  Sometimes  they 
had  a  route  march  and  sometimes  the  officers  gave  or  attended  lec- 
tures. Merville  itself  provided  little  entertainment,  there  being  but 
a  sprinkling  of  shops  in  which  could  be  obtained  only  such  things 
as  nobody  required.  Adrian  one  afternoon  tried  to  renew  associa- 
tions with  the  tobacco  factory  where  Pemberton  and  he  had  passed 
their  first  night  at  the  front.  But  that  somewhat  distracting 
episode  in  pitch  darkness  had  left  little  impression  of  locality  upon 
him  and  he  had  to  be  content  with  re-discovering  the  ex-school- 
house  clearing-station  to  which  he  had  been  carried  after  being 
wounded. 

The  place  was  undisputably  depressing,  and  the  young  man  him- 
self felt  depressed.  A  misty  greyness  seemed  permanently  to  over- 
hang the  ill-fated  land,  over  Merville  itself,  when  of  afternoons 
Adrian  and  Eric  or  Cornwallis — sometimes  all  three — strolled 
through  its  narrow  streets,  thickly  thronged  with  soldiery.  The 
whole  country  and  everybody  and  everything  in  it  seemed  to  merge 
in  a  single  drab  monotone.  The  drinking-saloons  or  estaminets, 


2i8  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

where  a  few  found  solace,  were  unutterably  squalid.  Football 
matches  in  which  the  officers  took  part  were  better  fun.  And  at 
night  there  were  lively  dinner-parties  supported  by  whisky  and 
wine. 

After  all  there  was  no  lack  of  "good  fellows"  in  the  battalion. 
Of  the  other  company-commanders,  one  only  was  a  regular  soldier. 
This  was  Vivian,  who  commanded  the  Right  Flank  company — a 
suave  and  lively  personality,  a  man  of  the  world.  The  two  other 
leaders  had  wron  their  companies  by  merit  as  had  Eric.  These 
were  Alston  and  Darell — the  former  a  barrister  who  had  joined  the 
Army  at  the  outbreak  of  war  and  had  something  of  the  legal  pro- 
fession's dry  efficiency.  Darell  had  been  a  gentleman  farmer  and 
was  an  oddly  nai've  and  simple  character,  a  natural  leader  of  men 
— not  a  good  soldier,  some  said,  but  brave  and  liked  by  his  com- 
pany. 

§  4 

They  were  in  a  sense  unreal  to  Adrian,  these  days  of  early 
winter.  On  the  first  morning  but  one  after  their  arrival  came  a 
letter  from  Rosemary,  full  of  love,  longing,  speculation — adjuring 
him  to  write,  to  write  at  once,  to  write  frequently. 

"That  day  on  the  Chilterns,"  she  wrote,  "shall  I  ever  forget  it? 
And  the  night!  Oh!  my  dear,  what  wonderful  things  happen  in 
life !  How  wonderful  this  thing  they  call  'love' — a  word  I  always 
despised — and  what  a  great  huge  gap  it  fills  in  one's  existence!  I 
feel  quieter  and  happier  now  though  it  was  too  awful  for  words 
after  you'd  gone.  .  .  .  But  do  you  remember  the  silly  things  I 
said  in  that  wood?  Well,  I  want  you  to  forget  all  about  them — 
I  did  not  really  mean  them.  But  seriously,  I  think  of  becoming 
a  good  steady  little  thing — a  sort  of  Miss  Kenelm!  I  shall  never 
forget  that  day  and  night  we  had  together  though,  because  I  have 
never  so  had  the  feeling  of  belonging  utterly  and  completely  to  some- 
body, of  being  cared  for  and  looked  after  and  being  absolutely  a 
part  of  somebody  as  I  had  then.  .  .  .  But  why,  oh!  why,  do  the 
good  things  in  this  world  end  so  quickly  ?  And  why,  oh !  why,  were 


WINTER  IN  NORTHERN  FRANCE  219 

you  such  a  perfect  fool  as  to  leave  your  little  Rosemary  for  that 
beastly  country?  Now,  I'm  going  to  be  extremely  vulgar  (not  to 
say  banal,  not  to  say  'second-rate'  as  Mamma  calls  it)  and  put  as 
many  x's  as  I  can  write  at  the  end  of  this  epistle.  What  a  relief 
it  invariably  is  to  be  vulgar  and  banal  and  second-rate !" 

There  followed  a  long  string  of  those  cryptic  signs  which  have 
embodied  the  sentiments  of  kitchen-maids  and  kings  since  the  prac- 
tice of  handwriting  began. 


CHAPTER  II 
Christmas,  1915 


ON  a  sunny  though  bitterly  cold  Sunday  afternoon  they  paraded 
in  heavy  marching  order  for  the  trenches.  An  open-air  service  had 
been  held  in  the  morning.  The  march  was  a  slow  one,  taking  them 
through  country  and  through  towns  that  were  already  familiar  to 
Adrian.  Through  La  Gorgue  they  passed  (as  in  an  earlier  time), 
and  then  through  Estaires  as  dusk  was  closing  in.  When  night  had 
come,  they  were  tramping  in  single  file  along  a  lonely  road  — 
cigarettes  out  and  no  talking.  And  when  he  saw  the  coloured  lights 
rising  and  falling  in  front  with  the  flat  country  stretching,  vague 
and  mysterious,  on  either  hand,  and  when  he  heard  a  sniper's  shot  or 
two,  or  the  far-off  chatter  of  a  machine-gun  —  Adrian  began  to  feel 
as  though  he  had  never  left  it  all.  When  they  came  to  a  ruined 
village  in  front  of  which  the  trenches  lay,  he  breathed  once  more 
the  atmosphere,  at  once  ghastly,  ghostly,  and  obscene,  of  the  old 
trench  world.  The  same  smells  came  to  his  nostrils.  He  heard 
the  same  sounds.  There  was  the  stench  of  rotting  sandbags,  of 
damp  tainted  earth,  of  stale  tinned  food,  the  stench  indefinable. 
There  was  the  sharp  crack  of  bullets  against  the  brick  walls  of 
ruined  houses  which,  as  they  tramped  down  what  had  once  been 
a  village  street,  were  limned  grotesquely  in  moonlight.  There  were 
moments  of  breathless  silence,  a  sense  of  vast  desolation.  There 
was  the  plashing  through  water,  the  clambering  over  heaps  of  fallen 
earth,  the  stumbling  and  the  stopping,  the  swearing  and  the  stern 
injunctions  to  silence,  the  wet,  crumbling  sandbags  that  felt  like 
cold  flesh,  the  creeping,  burdened,  ghostly  figures  of  the  soldiers. 
In  the  front  line  it  was  the  same  —  old  familiar  atmosphere.  Only 
instead  of  the  shallow  unconnected  series  of  strong  points  he  had 

220 


CHRISTMAS,  1915  221 

known  at  Fleurbaix,  here  were  sandbag  breastworks,  thick  and 
high,  with  well-constructed  fire-bays  and  stout  traverses.  Of  little 
account  were  the  dug-outs — mere  dens  beneath  parapet  or  parados, 
dripping  wet,  with  water  oozing  through  the  floor-boards,  and 
everywhere,  rats.  Nor  was  there  room  for  all  the  men,  some  of 
whom  had  to  lie  out  on  the  fire-steps — though,  it  was  remarked, 
by  those  who  knew  Colonel  Steele,  it  mattered  little,  as  there  would 
be  scant  rest  for  anybody  during  the  four  days  in  the  front  line. 

As  soon  as  his  sentries  had  been  posted  and  his  men  as  fairly 
apportioned  as  might  be,  Adrian  clambered  onto  the  parapet  and 
surveyed  the  scene.  Glooming  before  him  stretched  No  Man's 
Land  with  its  inscrutable  shadows  and  its  baffling  mystery.  A  line 
of  dwarfed  willows  ran  at  right  angles  to  the  trench.  A  few 
hundred  yards  away  (he  knew)  were  the  Germans.  A  powerful 
and  peculiar  curiosity  to  penetrate  that  deathly  veil  of  moonshine 
returned  once  more.  He  jumped  back  into  the  trench  and  found 
Cornwall  is,  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  or  where  to  go. 

"I  came  along  to  try  and  find  where  my  platoon  ought  to  be," 
he  stammered  nervously.  "And  now  I  can't  find  it — No.  15." 

Before  Adrian  could  advise  in  the  matter,  a  harsh  voice  was 
heard. 

"What's  that — what's  that?  Who  can't  find  his  platoon? 
Hullo,  Knoyle!  What's  this  about  a  lost  platoon?" 

Colonel  Steele  had  come  round  the  traverse,  stick  in  hand,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Commanding  Officer  of  the  battalion  they  were 
relieving  and  two  orderlies. 

"We're  just  going  to  look  for  it,  sir." 

"Who's  'we'?    Is  it  your  platoon,  Knoyle?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Is  it  yours  then?"  the  autocrat  demanded,  turning  on  Corn- 
wallis. 

"Yes,  sir.    I — I  was  with  it  a  moment  ago.    I — it  can't  be  far." 

"Well,  look  for  it,  man!  Catch  it!  Find  it!  You're  holding 
up  the  whole  relief." 

"What's  his  name?"  the  Colonel  inquired  of  Adrian  in  wearily 
impatient  tones  after  the  unfortunate  young  officer  had  gone  on 


222  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

ahead.  "Is  he  one  of  the  just-joined?  Oh!  well,  give  him  a  hand 
for  heaven's  sake.  The  boy's  a  fool." 

The  two  Colonels  passed  on  down  the  trench. 

Adrian  and  Cornwallis  stumbled  about  for  some  time  in  search 
of  the  missing  platoon.  Cornwallis  spoke  no  word.  But  whenever 
a  bullet  thumped  into  the  sandbags  near  them,  he  ducked.  And 
whenever  a  Verey  light  went  up,  falling  with  hiss  and  glare  any- 
where at  hand,  Cornwallis  crouched.  These  two  movements, 
Adrian  perceived,  were  involuntary  and  simultaneous  with  the 
event.  It  was  the  first  reaction  on  an  imaginative,  highly-strung 
nature.  And  he  who  had  not  been  without  his  own  earlier  struggles 
saw  a  further  world  of  trouble  ahead  for  Cornwallis. 

However,  they  at  length  found  the  missing  unit  and  put  it  in  its 
place. 

Then  Eric  came  along  with  the  Company  Sergeant-Major. 

"Everything  all  right?  Found  the  machine-gun  emplacements? 
Got  the  bombs  and  grenades  and  tools  and  things?  Got  all  your 
sentries  posted  and  your  men  detailed  to  dug-outs?  Good!  Now 
about  the  wiring " 

Following  Eric,  they  all  clambered  out  of  the  trench.  The  com- 
pany-commander began  prodding  the  wire  with  his  stick,  testing 
its  strength  and  thickness :  presently  he  found  a  way  through  and 
strolled  out  beyond  it,  the  rest  following.  They  had  not  gone  far 
when  a  light  went  up  followed  by  the  shattering  "clack-clack-clack" 
of  a  machine-gun,  the  bullets  of  wThich  whirred  like  a  covey  of 
driven  partridges  over  their  heads.  All  stood  still  in  the  quivering 
white  glare  that  seemed  intent  on  exposing  every  detail  of  the> 
landscape — all  except  the  unfortunate  Cornwallis  who  gave  a 
jump  and  fell  flat  on  his  face. 

"Hullo !"  whistled  Eric.  "What's  up!  Not  hit,  are  you?  It's 
generally  best  to  keep  still  when  these  things  happen.  .  .  .  Now 
here,  of  course,  we  shall  have  to  do  a  lot  of  strengthening " 

At  this  moment  Walker  joined  them. 

"Oh,  the  dirty  dogs!"  he  ejaculated.  "They've  just  put  one  of 
their  infernal  machines  into  my  trench  and  got  one  of  my  blokes 
in  the  leg.  I  watched  it  coming  over.  It  came  from  the  place 


CHRISTMAS,  1915  223 

where  the  other  people  (and  what  a  filthy  state  they've  left  the 
whole  place  in!)  said  a  machine-gun  fires.  I  swear  I'll  go  across 
to-night  and  see  what's  there.  And  if  there  is  a  blighter  there,  well, 
I'll  do  the  blighter  in.  Any  objection,  Eric?" 

"None,  my  dear  chap — none  whatever,"  Eric  replied  in  the  voice 
of  a  bored  host  giving  carte  blanche  to  an  importunate  guest. 
"Shoot  anything  you  like — do.  We  don't  preserve  any,  you  know. 
Now  about  this  cross-wiring  for  to-morrow  night.  .  .  ." 


One  day  slowly  succeeded  another,  and  it  did  not  take  the 
battalion  long  to  settle  down  to  the  ordered  routine  of  trench  life. 
With  three  subalterns,  in  addition  to  the  company-commander, 
who  was  himself  an  example  of  what  can  only  be  called  "lethargic 
energy,"  the  trench  duties,  working  fatigues,  and  patrols  did  not 
fall  too  heavily  on  anybody.  At  "stand-to"  morning  and  evening, 
Eric  was  always  present;  but  on  these  occasions  he  required  the 
attendance  of  only  one  of  his  subalterns.  During  the  day  he  was 
constantly  out  watching  his  working-parties,  while  at  any  hour  of 
the  night  he  was  apt  to  walk  round  the  sentry-posts.  He  seemed 
to  eschew  sleep,  yet  his  movements  were  casual  and  easy-going. 
He  was  never  known  to  hurry,  get  excited,  or  be  in  the  smallest 
degree  demonstrative.  His  attitude  in  general  was  one  of  rather 
off-hand  boredom — certainly  of  flippancy  and  detachment — as  it 
had  been  to  more  trivial  matters  in  pre-war  days.  An  affabfe, 
smiling  neatness  characterised  him  in  the  trenches  as  out  of  them. 
He  laid  particular  stress  on  parade  "smartness."  He  inspired  some 
slight  affection  in  his  men — with  whom,  however,  he  never  culti- 
vated a  close  personal  relationship,  declaring  they  much  preferred 
their  own  society  to  that  of  their  officers — considerable  amusement, 
and  very  great  confidence. 

Eric,  in  fact,  handled  war  as  he  had  handled  the  social  arts — 
delicately,  fastidiously,  and  with  a  certain  air  of  playful  amusement. 
He  was  never  technical,  abstruse,  or  ultra-professional.  It  was  his 
little  pose  to  boast  that  he  could  not  remember  "the  names  of  all 


224  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

the  bombs  and  things."  Durrant,  an  elderly  and  ultra-conscientious 
subaltern,  who  kept  diaries,  notebooks  innumerable,  any  official 
pamphlets  and  instructions  he  could  lay  hands  on,  marked  maps 
perseveringly  in  his  spare  time,  and  always  used  the  correct  tech- 
nical phraseology  even  in  every-day  conversation — Durrant  was  the 
unceasing  butt  of  his  wit. 

Adrian,  for  his  part,  found  a  strong  human,  as  well  as  a  technical, 
interest  in  his  platoon.  His  men,  if  not  strong  individualities,  had 
individual  characteristics  which,  embodying  good-nature,  patience, 
humour,  and  courage,  reflected  in  each  of  their  little  groups  very 
much  the  same  contrasting  traits  as  were  found  among  their  officers. 
The  bar  between  officer  and  man  was  never  passed  by  him — such 
accomplishment  seemed  to  require  the  more  robust  personality  of  a 
Walker — but  he  endeavoured  to  consider  his  men  as  far  as  possible 
rather  in  the  light  of  a  society  of  individuals  than  as  a  platoon  of 
soldiers. 

Casualties  were  few  in  this  line  of  stout  high  breastworks,  since 
unless  a  man  chose  to  thrust  his  head  above  the  parapet  in  broad 
daylight  there  was  no  particular  reason  why  anybody  should  get 
shot.  The  enemy  rarely  shelled  the  front  line — he  rarely  shelled 
at  all.  When  the  British  artillery  forced  him  into  action,  he  would 
retaliate  by  throwing  a  limited  number  of  large  shells  within  a 
given  area  around  the  batteries. 

The  one  exciting  event  of  every  day  was  the  morning  tour  of  the 
Commanding  Officer  round  the  lines.  Sometimes  he  came  with  the 
Brigadier,  sometimes  with  his  adjutant  only.  In  either  event  it  was 
Colonel  Steele  who  advised,  ordered,  suggested,  and  reprimanded. 
The  grey-haired  Brigadier  responded — and  agreed. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  visits  during  the  second  spell  in  the 
trenches  that  Arthur  Cornwallis  again  came  under  notice.  It  was 
a  question  of  periscopes. 

"How  many  periscopes  have  you  got  in  your  platoon,  Corn- 
wallis ?  I  don't  seem  to  see  any  on  your  sentry  posts.  You  know 
the  order." 

Lieutenant  Cornwallis  knew  neither  the  order  nor  a  periscope 
when  he  saw  one.  The  answer  to  such  a  question  had  never, 


CHRISTMAS,  1915  225 

therefore,  occurred  to  him.  He  peered  helplessly  through  his 
spectacles  and  said  nothing. 

Captain  Sinclair  came  to  the  rescue — with  a  lie. 

"They  were  all  lost  at  Loos,  sir.    No  issue  since." 

Then  there  was  the  drainage  question. 

Lieutenant  Cornwallis  had  never  been  interested  in  drains,  ex- 
cept in  reference  to  a  certain  rustic  cottage  which  His  family  had 
purchased  in  haste  and  repented  at  leisure.  Yet  here  he  was — 
ordered  to  drain  a  particular  place  in  a  particular  way.  His  Com- 
manding Officer  told  him  how  to  do  it  in  one  crisp  sentence : 

"Dig  a  channel  to  a  sump-hole." 

The  unfortunate  youth  felt  rather  less  wise  after  receiving  this 
instruction  than  he  had  done  before. 

However,  after  much  argument  and  more  speculation  as  to  the 
precise  meaning  of  the  order,  he  begged  his  platoon  humbly  to  dig 
a  channel  to  a  sump-hole  and  trusted  to  an  all-merciful  Providence 
that  the  water  would  flow  away.  It  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  On 
the  contrary,  the  sump-hole  freely  rilled  from  neighbouring  rivulets 
and  proceeded  swiftly  to  discharge  its  contents  into  the  already 
water-logged  trench. 

"What  the  hell's  this  mess?"  inquired  Colonel  Steele  next  morn- 
ing. "Didn't  I  say  the  trench  was  to  be  drained?  Who's  respon- 
sible for  it,  Sinclair?  Yourself?  Good  God,  no!  I  remember 
speaking  to  one  of  your  subalterns.  Oh !  you — what's-your-name — 
Cornwallis?  Haven't  you  ever  drained  a  trench  before  or  weren't 
you  listening  to  what  I  said  yesterday  morning?  DRAIN  THAT 
TRENCH!  And  come  and  see  me  in  the  orderly-room  when  we 
get  out  of  the  line." 

"That  boy  of  yours  wants  hunting,  Eric,"  remarked  Colonel 
Steele  to  the  company-commander  as  they  passed  down  the  trench. 

"Oh !  I  think  he'll  do  all  right,  Colonel,  he  only  wants  looking 
after  a  bit.  It  was  really  my  fault  about  the  ditch.  I  told  him  to 
do  it  like  that,  it  looks  better — when  it  comes  off." 

All  of  which  was  strictly  untrue,  but  contrived  nevertheless  to 
save  Lieutenant  Cornwallis  from  an  exceedingly  unpleasant  few 
minutes. 


226  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

The  culprit  meanwhile  had  crept  away  to  his  watery  little  den 
which  courtesy  called  a  dug-out,  where  he  endeavoured  to  bury 
himself  and  his  troubles  in  "Idylls  of  the  King." 

§  3 

November  went  by,  December  came  and  Christmas  approached. 
All  settled  down  mechanically  because  inevitably  to  that  mode  of 
life  unto  which  it  had  pleased  God  and  their  country  to  call  them. 
Life  divided  itself  definitely  into  two  phases — the  eight  days  spent 
half  in  the  firing-line  and  half  in  reserve  billets,  and  the  eight  days 
spent  in  the  comparatively  comfortable  farmhouses  nine  miles  back. 
Thus  every  week  or  so  they  tramped  the  long  straight  road  through 
La  Gorgue  and  Estaires:  forward  with  philosophical  resignation, 
rearward,  tired,  mud-stained,  and  optimistic.  Then,  indeed,  the 
column  would  be  noisy  with  jokes  and  comic  songs,  buoyed  by 
anticipation  of  enhanced  freedom  amid  semi-civilised  surroundings. 
At  Merville,  there  were  formal  drill-parades  and  occasional  route 
marches;  there  were  also  football  matches,  concerts,  rides,  dinner- 
parties. But  after  a  while  these  amusements  palled.  Concerts  be- 
came tame  when  the  comic  man  had  sung  his  customary  song  and 
the  sentimentalist  had  delivered  his  love  lyrics,  the  quartette  had 
done  their  hearty  part,  the  sketch-man  had  given  his  imitation,  and 
the  duologue  had  provoked  appropriate  laughter  for  the  eighth  or 
ninth  time.  Riding  horseback  was  hardly  worth  while  during  that 
muddy  winter,  on  the  narrow  pave  roads  and  amid  the  ceaseless 
traffic ;  it  was  not  a  riding  country.  And  the  dinner-parties — well, 
they  were  pretty  much  alike  after  all,  involving  much  drinking, 
much  cigarette-smoking,  a  great  deal  of  "shop,"  and  the  rather 
redundant  jokes  about  women.  What  Adrian  Knoyle  looked  for- 
ward to  and  enjoyed  were  his  long  walks  with  Eric  through  coun- 
try however  uninteresting,  upon  afternoons  however  depressing  in 
their  speaking  sense  of  the  dead-weight  of  war,  the  negation  of  life, 
and  the  circumvention  of  hope.  Then  together  they  would  con- 
trive to  create  out  of  their  never-flagging  conversation  an  atmos- 
phere that  lifted  them  above  their  surroundings,  took  them  back 


CHRISTMAS,  rp/5  227 


into  the  past  and  even  led  them  towards  possibilities  of  a  future. 
For  all  his  loathing  of  war  and  everything  connected  with  it, 
Adrian  was  not  "up  against  it."  The  thing  was  inevitable,  it  was 
an  experience,  nothing  would  alter  it.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was 
sensible  of  his  good  fortune  in  having  what  others  lacked  —  his  asso- 
ciation with  Eric.  He  saw  always  before  him  the  rather  pathetic 
figure  of  Cornwallis  who  had  to  plough  a  lonelier  furrow  than  he, 
and  a  bitterer  one  ;  Cornwallis  in  whom  Adrian  felt  many  qualities 
akin;  Cornwallis  who  was  indeed  "up  against  it." 

So  Christmas  came  —  with  its  formal  message  of  "Peace  on  earth 
and  goodwill  towards  men"  —  to  the  drab  and  motley  crew  in  the 
trenches. 

And  soon  after  midnight,  as  though  to  herald  the  birth  of  the 
Saviour  in  the  speaking  voice  of  that  sinister  time,  the  guns  burst 
forth  in  a  thudding,  banging,  booming  chorus,  the  sky  became  livid 
with  gun-flashes,  the  German  trenches  glowed  with  bursting  shells 
and  upward-springing  sparks.  A  Corps  bombardment  had  been 
ordained,  and  for  miles  to  north  and  south  every  gun  fired.  Adrian 
Knoyle,  passing  on  his  round  of  the  outposts,  stood  spellbound  by 
this  midnight  vision  of  the  Inferno,  by  the  grotesqueness  of  this 
irony,  this  voice  of  Terror  incarnate  that  ushered  in  the  Christmas 
dawn. 

Silence  succeeded  thunder,  a  silence  in  which  the  iron-shod 
ground  alone  responded  to  the  frosty  glitter  of  the  stars.  Morning 
broke  with  a  grey  sky  lowering  upon  the  brown  world,  with  its 
spectral  trees,  its  leaning  crosses,  its  white  husk  of  a  church-tower. 
Here  and  there,  wisps  of  moist  and  vapoury  winter  mist  lingered 
mournfully,  magnifying  every  feature  of  the  landscape.  Smoke  of 
breakfast  fires  rose  above  the  German  breastworks.  A  black  frost 
still  bound  the  earth.  From  either  side  of  a  belt  of  ashen  grey- 
green  grass,  reddened  in  places  by  rusting  wire  and  stakes,  the  two 
interminable  lines  of  trenches  stared  at  one  another  grimly. 

It  was  here  that  British  and  Germans  met.  And  where  Knoyle 
watched  in  the  bay  of  the  trench,  even  as  the  grey  and  khaki  figures 
stood  up  and  waved  to  each  other,  a  shot  broke  the  stillness,  and 
a  platoon-sergeant  who  had  long  been  his  friend,  tumbled  back  into 


228  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

the  trench.  There  he  lay  at  full  length,  palpitating  and  bleeding; 
yet  uncannily  natural  in  the  mud  until  someone  brought  a  sandbag 
and  covered  up  his  face. 

To  Adrian,  that  was  a  curiously  shocking  and  disillusioning 
experience.  After  it,  the  atmosphere  of  "Christmas,"  which  even 
war  could  not  entirely  disperse,  ceased  to  have  any  meaning  for  him. 
This  sudden  annihilation  of  a  man  with  whom  a  moment  before 
he  had  spoken,  was  like  the  tumbling  of  a  last  ideal  in  a  catas- 
trophically  falling  world.  And  there  was  something  else.  Out  on 
the  wire  in  front  hung  a  queer,  grey  object.  It  was  only  half  there; 
it  looked  as  if  a  knob  of  wood,  painted  blue,  had  been  stuck  on  a 
bone.  Every  time  the  wind  stirred,  the  grey  shreds  flapped. 

Adrian  and  Eric  watched  the  scene  between  the  trenches  in 
silence.  They  had  drawn  their  revolvers,  but  the  effort  to  hold 
back  even  their  well-disciplined  men  was  without  avail.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  An  insurgent  common  impulse  of  the  com- 
batants prevailed,  and  grey  and  khaki  swarmed  out  to  meet  each 
other — one  or  two  Germans  in  white  overalls  or  smocks  among 
them — at  the  willow-lined  stream.  They  crossed  it  and  mingled  in 
a  haphazard  throng.  They  talked  and  gesticulated,  they  shook 
hands.  They  patted  each  other  on  the  shoulder,  laughed  like 
schoolboys,  and  out  of  sheer  lightheartedness  leapt  across  the  trickle 
of  water.  An  Englishman  fell  in,  and  a  German  helped  him  out 
amid  laughter  that  echoed  back  on  the  crisp  air  to  the  trenches. 
They  exchanged  cigars  and  sausage  and  sauerkraut  and  concen- 
trated coffee,  for  cigarettes  and  bully  beef  and  ration  biscuits  and 
tobacco.  They  exchanged  experiences  and  compliments  and  com- 
parisons, addresses  and  good  wishes — and  even  hopes  and  fears. 

So  was  Christmas  Day  celebrated  upon  the  battlefield. 

There  appeared  after  a  quarter-of-an-hour  two  German  officers 
who  wished  to  take  photographs — a  request  which  the  men  refused. 
"Our  artillery  will  open  on  you  in  exactly  five  minutes,"  they 
retorted.  "Get  back  to  your  trenches  or  take  the  consequences." 

And  the  trench-world  was  lifeless,  unpeopled  once  more. 

The  guns  thudded  again,  this  time  from  behind  the  Aubers  Ridge ; 
shells  crashed  upon  all  the  reads.  Fountains  of  earth  and  dust  and 


CHRISTMAS,  1915  229 

masonry  shot  skyward  around  the  ruined  village;  there  were  death 
and  wounds  for  those  who  lingered  in  the  open.  Only  the  rifles 
remained  silent.  Morning  passed.  Silver  and  still,  the  afternoon 
waned  into  winter's  early  dusk.  Frost  gripped  again  with  night, 
and  along  both  lines  of  trenches  torch-like  fires  burned.  Extra 
rum  was  issued.  There  were  sounds  of  singing. 

§  4 

In  a  low  cave  or  structure  roofed  with  corrugated  iron  and  lit 
by  four  candles  stuck  in  bottles,  the  floor  of  which  was  some  two 
feet  deep  in  water — Adrian  Knoyle  and  Arthur  Cornwallis  sat 
together.  Walker  was  on  leave,  Eric  Sinclair  going  his  rounds.  In 
front  of  each  was  a  white  enamelled  mug  containing  port-wine. 
They  were  smoking. 

"That  was  a  funny  show  to-day,"  observed  Adrian. 

"It  was,"  answered  Cornwallis  ruminatingly.  "I've  been  think- 
ing a  lot  about  it." 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"It  was — astounding." 

"But  how  do  you  explain  it — psychologically?" 

"I  think  it  was  some  sort  of  reaction:  reaction  of  character,  of 
human  nature,  of  fundamental  truth  and  order  and  proportion 
against  the  disproportion  and  unreality  and  superficiality  overlaying 
our  old  conception  of  civilisation."  The  youth  spoke  very  earnestly. 
He  was  himself  with  Adrian — and  with  no  one  else  in  the  bat- 
talion. "Reaction  of  the  best  against  the  worst  in  human  nature. 
.  .  .  Have  you  noticed  it — only  the  real  things  seem  to  come 
uppermost  in  war,  Adrian?  I  mean  reality  seems  to  reveal  one  to 
oneself,  drags  one  out  of  oneself,  and  the  fundamental  truth  in 
people  seems  to  show  up  in  face  of  it  and  in  spite  of  forms.  In 
peace-time  we  were  always  getting  across — I  mean  misunderstand- 
ing— one  another,  weren't  we?  And  we  were  always  misunder- 
standing— life.  We  saw  each  other  through  a  glass  darkly,  but 
now — face  to  face.  Now  we  know  even  as  also  we  are  known." 


230  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

Leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table,  Cornwallis  peered  with  great 
gravity  at  his  friend  through  his  steel-rimmed  spectacles.  Both 
were  caked  in  mud,  and  wore  two  days'  growth  of  beard. 

"Yes,  my  dear  Arthur,  but" — Adrian  looked  puzzled — "I  con- 
fess I  don't  get  you " 

"The  impulse  at  the  back  of  it,  the  inspiration  of  the  thing. 
Could  one  have  imagined  it?  These  chaps  pouring  out  over  the 
parapets  into  No  Man's  Land  to  shake  hands,  to  laugh  and  joke 
and  exchange  presents  and — their  own  dead  lying  around.  One 
has  heard  of  the  French  and  British  drinking  at  the  same  stream 
in  the  Peninsula  but — that  was  nothing  to  this.  When  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  it's  tremendous — amazing.  Of  course  I'm  no  soldier, 
and  the  disciplinary  part  of  it  is  of  secondary  interest  to  me.  What 
that  five  minutes'  affair  this  morning  brought  out,  to  my  mind,  was 
the  triumph  of  fundamental  good  in  the  average  individual,  who 
in  this  case  is  the  private  soldier,  over — the  other  thing.  It  was  a 
revelation.  It  was  finer  than  any  church  service  or  any  Christmassy 
sentiment,  because  it  was  a  spontaneous  human  thing.  To  me  it's 
an  unforgettable  experience." 

"Yes — that's  interesting,"  said  his  companion  slowly.  "I'm  glad 
to  have  seen  it,  too,  though  war  never  struck  me  as  anything  but 
utterly  damnable,  utterly  destructive,  and  utterly  meaningless. 
But — yes,  there  may  be  some  bigger  thing  at  the  back  of  it." 

Neither  spoke  for  several  minutes. 

"Well— I  dunno,"  Adrian  presently  muttered,  abstractedly 
lighting  a  cigarette.  "I  mean  war  and  death  and  the  hurt  of  it — 
and  all.  I  feel  as  if  it  isn't  sane  sometimes — can't  be  true." 

"It  isn't,  thank  God,"  exclaimed  Cornwallis  devoutly.  (He  had, 
by  the  way,  evinced  a  habit  that  was  a  source  of  amusement  to  some 
of  his  brother-officers  and  of  admiration  to  others,  of  kneeling  down 
every  evening  wherever  he  happened  to  be  and  saying  his  prayers.) 
"It  isn't.  The  only  life  that  counts  is  the  life  one  lives  in  one's 
own  mind." 

The  sandbag  that  did  duty  as  a  curtain  over  the  entrance  was 
drawn  aside,  and  Eric  stumbled  in. 

"I  suppose  you're  both  drunk,"  he  said.    "I  want  a  drink,  any- 


CHRISTMAS,  1915  231 

way.  It's  too  bloody  cold  for  words.  .  .  .  They're  singing  over 
in  the  German  lines." 

He  took  off  his  heavy  fleece-lined  waterproof,  sat  down  on  a 
plank  poised  between  two  boxes,  and  poured  himself  out  some 
port-wine.  He  raised  the  mug  to  his  lips: 

"Here's  to  each  of  you  and  here's  to  all  of  us!" 

They  drank  this  somewhat  complicated  toast,  and  then  the 
company-commander  said : 

"Arthur,  will  you  take  a  walk  round  now?  One  of  us  ought 
to  be  about,  or  the  Boche  may  play  some  dirty  trick  under  cover 
of  all  that  joy-making." 

For  several  minutes  after  they  were  left  alone  together  the  old 
friends  said  no  word.  Speech  to  them  was  at  all  times  superfluous. 
Then  Adrian  proposed  a  toast. 

"To  those  we  love  best  and  to  those  who  love  us!" 

"Very  nice,"  murmured  Eric. 

They  drank  in  silence.  .  .  . 

Adrian's  thoughts  had  suddenly  taken  a  bright  turn.  He  realised 
that  three  months  had  imperceptibly  passed  and  that  only  two  more 
separated  him  from  Rosemary.  The  rest — lay  with  Fate. 

Crump!    Crump!    Thud!    Thud! 

Muffled  by  the  earthen  walls  came  the  hollow  sound  of  shells 
bursting.  The  two  officers  crawled  out,  but  silence  had  fallen 
again  except  in  the  direction  of  the  German  trenches  where  a 
chorus  of  guttural  voices  was  chanting  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein. 


CHAPTER  III 
Anticipation 


A  BROKEN  road  by  which  men  and  guns  and  transport  journey 
to  the  trenches;  a  broken  village  where  the  inhabitants  lurk  in 
ruins  or  underneath  them,  where  the  rats  run  and  the  birds  flit 
at  ease ;  a  broken  church  whose  tower,  landmark  for  miles  around, 
is  spared  only  because  the  German  gunners  find  it  useful  as  a 
range-finder.  And  a  decayed  railway  station,  grass-grown,  decorated 
with  melancholy  advertisements  and  a  melancholy  name-board 
beckoning  the  traveller  who  never  comes. 

Unlike  some  ruins,  there  is  nothing  beautiful  about  these.  They 
are  degraded  and  degrading.  Even  the  church  is  of  a  piece  with 
the  rest,  modern,  red-brick,  ugly.  .  .  .  And  the  road  leads  on, 
muddy  and  greasy,  straight  on  through  the  village.  It  is  broad 
and  planted  on  either  side  with  young  poplars.  There  is  a  footpath 
between  the  roadway  and,  at  the  entrance  to  the  village,  a  row 
of  houses.  Most  of  these  are  occupied  by  their  civilian  owners 
as  well  as  by  troops ;  a  few  are  good  houses  and  comfortable.  Each 
has  a  cellar,  which,  being  the  only  salvation  in  case  of  bombard- 
ment, is  sandbagged  up  outside  to  keep  out  splinters.  Behind  the 
houses  are  vegetable  gardens  tilled  by  the  women  and  old  men  who 
have  remained. 

In  this  village,  barely  a  mile  from  the  firing  line,  the  Left  Flank 
company  had  spent  many  weeks  of  their  second  winter  in  Northern 
France. 

Late  at  night  they  would  come  back  to  it,  caked  in  mud,  stiff 
from  damp  and  lack  of  exercise,  for  here  were  quartered  the 
brigade  in  reserve.  And  in  the  wintry  twilight  four  days  later, 

232 


ANTICIPATION  233 

by  the  same  broken  road  they  would  set  off  for  the  trenches 
again. 

There  stood  nearly  opposite  the  railway  station  a  dilapidated 
estaminet.  Its  dark  and  narrow  doorway  opened  upon  two 
ground-floor  rooms  leading  one  into  the  other,  the  greenish  paint 
and  plaster  of  which  were  rapidly  peeling  from  their  compart- 
ment-like walls.  In  one  room  the  floor  was  of  brick  tiles.  It 
had  evidently  been  a  cafe,  for  here  also  was  a  kind  of  bar  counter. 
Most  of  the  panes  were  missing  from  the  windows,  one  or  two 
were  protected  by  brown  paper.  The  adjoining  room  had  been 
a  kind  of  parlour;  a  faded  lithograph  or  two  still  hung  upon  the 
walls;  there  were  a  stove,  a  table,  and  one  or  two  rickety  chairs, 
but  no  carpet.  Both  rooms  were  thick  with  dirt. 

They  were  inhabited  by  certain  strange  beings:  a  fat,  frowsy, 
elderly  woman,  with  pale  complexion  and  black  hair  who  might 
be  seen  waddling  about  in  heel-less  slippers,  looking  like  a  Blooms- 
bury  lodging-house  keeper;  a  middle-aged  man,  lean,  distrustful 
and  furtive,  sitting  vacantly  at  the  table  opposite  a  bottle  or  occupy- 
ing himself  with  some  ill-defined  menial  occupation.  Always  these 
two  lurkfng  there.  And  sometimes  about  the  middle  of  the  morn- 
ing— or  in  the  evening — a  group  foregathered  in  the  room:  a  few 
friends  came  in,  slatternly-looking  girls  and  dwarfed,  misshapen 
youths,  or  haggard,  woe-struck,  aged  people,  not  less  dirty,  frowsy, 
wretched-looking  than  the  couple  themselves. 

Next  this  "parlour"  and  for  ever  within  sound  of  chattering 
French  voices  was  a  large  square  apartment,  lighted  by  candles 
and  two  oil-lamps.  A  big  French  stove  where  the  hearth  should 
have  been,  a  thick,  stuffy  atmosphere,  reeking  of  tobacco-smoke 
and  cooking.  There  was  much  flimsy  furniture  in  the  room — too 
much — and  on  every  hand  a  litter  of  objects — caps,  gloves,  water- 
proofs, and  coats;  newspapers,  magazines,  books,  packs  of  cards, 
revolvers  also  lay  about.  On  a  side-table  in  a  corner  stood  bottles 
of  whisky  and  port,  butter  on  a  saucer,  pots  of  jam  and  mar- 
malade. 

It  was  late  on  a  February  evening,  and  the  room  was  occupied 
by  three  officers  of  the  Left  Flank  Company.  Walker,  smoking 


234  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

a  cigar,  with  a  whisky-and-soda  beside  him,  was  playing  some 
card  game.  Cornwallis  was  deep  in  Wordsworth's  "Excursion." 
Adrian,  with  a  writing-pad  balanced  on  his  knee,  stared  into  the 
pleasant  glow  of  the  stove. 

"Adrian,"  ejaculated  Walker,  "I've  got  a  new  female  in  my 
room.  Would  you  like  to  see  her?" 

"No,"  replied  the  other  without  hesitation. 

"What! — don't  you  want  to  see  her?" 

"No.    I  don't  like  your  females.    Show  her  to  Arthur." 

"Oh,  no!"  laughed  Walker.  "Not  Arthur!  Our  little  curate 
would  be  shocked." 

Cornwallis  blinked  over  his  spectacles  and  smiled  amiably: 

"A  new  female — what  do  you  mean?    A  French  girl?" 

"Yes — of  course.    A  Parisienne!" 

"Oh,  you  know  his  beastly  collection,  don't  you?"  growled 
Adrian. 

"You  mean  another  Kirschner  by  your  bed?" 

"No,  no!  A  live  one  in  my  bed"  retorted  Walker.  "He 
believes  me !  Like  to  see  her  ?  .  .  .  Come !  Come  and  play  poker 
patience,  you  son  of  a  gun!" 

"No,  George — please!    I  want  to  read  my  book." 

"Not  that  poetical  muck — Tennyson,  Wordsworth,  or  whatever 
the  bloke's  name  is.  Oh,  no!  No!  Really,  I  can't  allow  it. 
I'm  sick  of  the  sight  of  you  poring  and  peering  over  there.  Be 
a  bit  unselfish  for  once.  Come  on!" 

Cornwallis  removed  his  spectacles  resignedly.  It  was  with  him 
a  sign  of  giving  way.  ...  He  always  did  give  way. 

"Eric  ought  to  be  here  soon." 

Adrian  returned  to  his  thoughts,  although  constantly  interrupted 
by  Walker's  loud  guffaws  or  by  the  entry  of  non-commissioned 
officers  and  orderlies  bringing  notes  or  printed  forms  for  signature. 

The  postponed  marriage  was  now  imminent,  and  the  yellow 
leave-ticket  had  for  days  past  been  the  centre  of  Adrian's  dreams. 
What  news  would  Eric  bring  on  his  return  from  leave?  Time 
had  fled  like  a  shadow  through  hours  and  days  that  separately 
had  seemed  endless.  He  looked  back  to  the  chill  afternoon  of 


ANTICIPATION  235 

his  second  arrival  in  France,  and  could  hardly  believe  that  he  stood 
so  near  to  the  end  of  that  long  vista  of  dreariness.  Now  his  great 
happiness  was  at  hand,  within  his  grasp  almost. 

Letters  from  Rosemary  had  been  brief  lately,  but  this  was  to 
be  expected  of  a  young  woman  in  the  last  weeks  before  marriage. 
The  final  details  of  the  wedding,  it  is  true,  had  not  been  settled. 
This  could  not  be  done  until  they  knew  the  exact  date  of  the 
bridegroom's  leave.  They  could,  after  all,  be  arranged  very  quickly ; 
such  things  usually  had  to  be  in  those  days.  In  any  case,  the 
wedding  was  to  take  place  at  Stavordale.  The  honeymoon  was  to 
be  spent  at  Mrs.  Rivington's  Sheringham  villa. 

Footsteps  sounded  in  the  stone  passage. 

"Hullo,  all  of  you!" 

In  the  doorway  stood  Eric,  his  fur-collared  overcoat  lightly 
sprinkled  with  snow.  He  carried  a  haversack. 

There  were  general  exclamations  of  welcome. 

"Had  a  good  leave?" 

"The  best." 

"Come  and  sit  down  and  get  warm,  and  tell  us  all  the  news. 
There's  some  dinner  being  kept  for  you." 

Adrian  drew  up  a  second  chair  in  front  of  the  stove  and  looked 
his  friend  up  and  down,  scrutinising  his  face,  as  though  to  read 
there  some  information  he  sought.  It  was  not  like  Eric  to  betray 
information  in  this  way.  And  Eric  was  entirely  his  cool  and 
collected  self. 

But  after  divesting  himself  of  his  outer  garments  and  unlacing 
his  boots,  he  produced  a  bulky  letter  from  an  inner  pocket  and 
flung  it  into  Adrian's  lap.  With  the  letter  was  a  five-pound  note. 

§2 

Impatient  as  they  were  for  the  other  two  to  depart  to  bed, 
they  discussed  general  topics  while  Eric  was  eating  his  dinner. 
Contrary  to  his  established  custom,  Eric  talked  "shop."  How 
was  the  Company — had  there  been  any  casualties — any  news  of 
a  move?  And  Adrian — what  were  things  like  in  England,  when 


236  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

did  people  at  home  think  the  war  was  going  to  end,  what  plays 
had  he  been  to,  who  was  coming  out  next  to  the  battalion  ? 

Then,  while  Eric  devoured  ham,  Adrian  devoured  the  half- 
dozen  sheets  covered  by  Rosemary's  sprawling  handwriting. 

".  .  .  Time  flies,"  she  wrote,  "and  this  time  next  month 
I  s'pose  we'll  be  duly  wedded  man  and  wife.  Doesn't  it  sound 
funny — and  respectable?  Don't  be  rough  and  full  of  odd  ex- 
pressions when  you  come  back,  and  dont  talk  about  the  war, 
or  I  shall  refuse  to  accompany  you  to  the  altar.  .  .  .  I'm  a 
very  busy  child.  I'm  going  to  act  in  'Lady  Windermere's  Fan' 
at  the  Court  next  month  in  aid  of  blind  soldiers  or  something. 
I  sold  programmes  twice  last  week,  and  every  morning  I  pack 
parcels  for  prisoners  at  Princes'.  Then  there's  the  wedding 
trousseau  to  prepare  and  mamma  to  manage,  and  sometimes 
golf.  So  what  do  you  think  of  that,  my  man?  You  can  never 
call  your  beautiful  Rosemary  an  'idle  little  skallywag'  again  I" 

The  phrase  referred  to  an  expression  used  in  one  of  Adrian's 
letters.  He  laughed  to  himself,  partly  at  the  expression,  chiefly 
to  relieve  the  burden  of  his  ridiculous  happiness. 

When  at  length  Walker  and  Cornwallis  departed  to  bed,  the 
two  friends  threw  coke  on  the  fire,  placed  their  feet  close  to  it, 
and  lit  cigarettes. 

"Well?"  ejaculated  Adrian. 

"You  won." 

"Congratulations  are  so  conventional.  Only  give  me  the  pleasure 
of  saying  'I  told  you  so!'  .  .  .  And  now  we're  all  joyfully  and 
suitably  affianced.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  war  we'd  have  a  double 
wedding  in  the  largest  church  in  London  with  all  the  rank  and 
fashion  and  beauty  of  the  town — what?" 

"Of  course,  it's  not  settled  down  to  the  last  detail  yet.  But 
the  official  sanction  is  given.  Only  his  lordship  wants  us  to  wait 
till  the  end  of  the  war.  What  an  obstinate  old  boy  he  is !  'Mary' 
is  willing  for  it  to  be  as  soon  as  possible.  However — much  can 
happen  between  now  and  next  leave.  Meanwhile,  Faith  and  I 


ANTICIPATION  237 

agreed  it  would  be  best  to  rest  on  our  laurels  and  wait — for  the 
present.  She'll  get  round  the  old  chap  in  time." 

They  talked  far  into  the  night  while  the  sleet  pattered  against 
the  brown  paper  in  the  window-frames.  Adrian  could  not  help 
reflecting  upon — while  not  envying — the  cool  and  collected  quality 
of  Eric's  and  Faith's  regard  for  one  another.  Yet  how  different 
from  his  own  feelings  for  Rosemary!  But  he  no  longer  doubted 
the  durability  of  their  affection.  Faith  he  had  never  doubted; 
it  had  needed  the  war  to  reveal  Eric. 

The  latter  showed  an  inconvenient  dilatoriness  in  respect  of 
Rosemary.  He  dilated  upon  the  charms  of  "Bric-a-brac"  and 
"Shell  Out,"  upon  a  couple  of  days'  shooting  he  had  had  at  the 
Rivingtons'  (together  with  a  few  poignant  details  of  his  experi- 
ences with  the  Miss  Kenelms,  one  of  whom  had  become  engaged 
to  the  local  curate),  upon  a  day's  racing  "over  sticks"  at  Gatwick, 
and  upon  a  bachelor  dinner-party  he  had  given  at  the  Cafe  Royale. 
But  of  Rosemary — nothing. 

At  last  Adrian's  impatience  got  the  better  of  him. 

"By  the  bye,  did  you  see  anything  of  Rosemary?" 

"Yes,  we  dined  at  the  Berkeley  and  went  to  the  play.  She 
and  Faith  and  old  Cyril  and  myself.  She's  very  fit.  She  talked 
a  lot  about  you,  of  course.  I  gather  the  preparations  are  well  on." 

"Ah!" 

For  an  instant  it  crossed  Adrian's  mind  that  there  was  the 
faintest  suggestion  of  reserve  in  his  friend's  manner.  Then  Eric 
spoke  again. 

"Poor  Cyril — it  did  him  good.  He's  looking  better,  though. 
We  ran  into  Gina  Maryon — I  didn't  know,  by  the  way,  she 
was  such  a  friend  of  Rosemary's.  I  confess  personally  I  can't 
cope  with  the  woman.  She  talks  sixty  to  the  dozen,  says  'a-ma-teur,' 
and  looks  at  you  as  if  you  were  a  bit  of  old  French  furniture. 
.  .  .  Hullo!  What's  this?" 

An  orderly  had  entered  with  an  official  envelope  which  he 
handed  to  Adrian. 

It  contained  a  yellow  ticket. 

"My  leave!" 


238  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

He  leapt  up,  seized  it  and  sat  down.  A  slow  flush  rose  in  his 
cheeks  as  he  stared  at  the  slip  of  paper. 

"Why,  they've  given  me  a  month!"  he  cried,  looking  at  his 

treasure.  "It's  marked  'special.'  How  the  devil ?  I  suppose 

you  managed  that,  you  old  blackguard?" 

"(Zest  qa,  mon  gargon" 

"Just  like  you,  damn  you.  But  I  can't  take  it,  you  know.  It's 
not  my  turn." 

"Rot !  You  weren't  fit  when  you  came  out.  They  never  ought 
to  have  sent  you.  I'm  not  going  to  have  my  second-in-command 
crocking  up  with  the  'shooting  season'  coming  on " 

"I'll  take  a  fortnight  of  it." 

"You'll  leave  to-morrow  at  midnight  and  you'll  return  one 
month  from  that  hour." 

"Well — we  shall  see.  At  the  moment  I  can't — I  simply  can- 
not— believe  it's  at  last  going  to  happen." 

"The  natural  feelings  of  a  bridegroom!"  commented  Eric,  put- 
ting coke  on  the  stove. 

"It's  pretty  bad  luck  you  can't  be  my  bottle-washer,  Eric." 

"Oh !  get  Cyril — or  somebody.  He'll  do  it  equally  well,  wheeled- 
chair  and  all." 

"Very  nice — but  not  the  same  thing!" 

"Don't  think  I  want  you  to  be  married,  my  dear  Adrian!  Not 
in  the  least.  Say  what  you  like,  when  a  man  enters  what  they 
call  the  'blessed  estate  of  matrimony,'  he  invariably  prefers  his 
own  drawing-room  to  anybody  else's  smoking-room." 

The  two  inseparables  went  on  philosophising  in  this  vein  for 
some  time. 

Both  agreed  that  it  would  be  better  to  say  nothing  about  the 
forthcoming  event  in  the  battalion  until  it  was  a  fait  accompli — 
except,  of  course,  to  Colonel  Steele,  who  had  generously  recom- 
mended the  granting  of  "special  leave"  for  "urgent  family  reasons." 
His  real  reason  probably  was  that,  prompted  by  Eric,  he  saw  a 
chance  of  conserving  the  health  of  his  senior  subaltern,  and  one 
of  the  few  young  officers  with  experience  in  the  battalion.  Adrian 
— if  the  truth  were  known — dreaded  the  unmerciful  chaff  he  knew 


ANTICIPATION  239 

he  would  receive  at  the  hands  of  his  brother-officers — especially 
Walker. 

It  was  near  daybreak  when  the  couple  finally  climbed  the  rotting 
staircase  to  bed.  Looking  out,  they  saw  snow  falling  upon  a 
landscape  inexpressibly  drear.  This  provided  a  rapt  contrast  for 
Adrian,  who  for  a  long  while  could  not  sleep,  so  joyfully  his  heart 
leapt  and  sang. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Nightfall 

§  i 

IT  was  shortly  after  the  midnight  next  following  that  Adrian  set 
out  upon  the  happiest  journey  of  his  life.  A  two-mile  walk  from 
the  billet  over  a  rough  shell-torn  road  brought  him  to  the  railway 
station.  He  carried  nothing  save  a  bulky  haversack  and  a  walking- 
stick.  He  strode  along,  engrossed  in  joyful  imaginings,  through 
the  frosty  starlit  night.  Searchlights,  German  and  English,  occa- 
sionally swept  pale  fingers  across  the  sky;  eastwards,  a  few 
miles  away,  the  familiar  Verey  lights  rose  and  fell  in  an  objective 
loneliness.  Laventie  slept. 

He  had  curiously  the  feeling  of  leaving  behind  him,  finally,  this 
ghost-haunted  and  sombre-world.  It  was  not  so,  of  course;  he 
would  be  back  in  a  fortnight — a  month  at  the  outside.  But  to 
visualise  returning  to  it  was  at  the  moment  impossible. 

At  the  station  there  was  a  long  wait.  The  leave-train  was  due 
to  start  at  one  o'clock;  by  two,  it  had  not  moved. 

He  found  himself  sharing  a  carriage  with  three  other  officers. 
For  some  time  he  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  to  keep  warm. 
His  spirits  brooked  no  damping;  he  cared  little  indeed  how  long 
the  journey  was  protracted,  so  it  ended — with  Rosemary.  Me- 
chanically, almost  unconsciously,  he  carried  on  half-a-dozen  con- 
versations with  different  people  whom  he  did  not  know  and  whose 
faces  he  could  not  see — each,  it  seemed,  exactly  like  the  last. 

"Cold,  isn't  it?" 

"Damnably." 

"Going  on  leave?" 

"Yes." 

"I  wish  the  confounded  train  would  start." 

240 


NIGHTFALL  241 

"It's  an  hour  overdue  already." 

"Where's  your  Division  now?" 

'  'Fauquissart-Laventie. ' ' 

"Quiet  there?" 

"Nothing  much  doing." 

"Heard  anything  of  a  'push'  coming  off?" 

"Not  immediately." 

"In  our  part  of  the  line "  and  so  forth  and  so  on. 

Adrian's  preoccupation  rejected  these  platitudes  and,  as  he  paced 
up  and  down,  his  mind  roved  as  far  as  could  be  from  things  of 
the  war,  finding  its  goal  in  the  small  parish  church  of  Stavordale, 
in  Yorkshire, 


§    2 

At  last  the  train  did  move — inconsequently,  as  it  were,  with 
a  jerk  and  without  warning  of  any  kind. 

Thereupon  the  four  officers  composed  themselves  in  their  car- 
riage after  the  approved  fashion  of  such  farings,  one  each  along 
the  seats,  one  crossways,  and  one  lying  on  the  floor.  Adrian  re- 
clined crossways.  But  he  did  not  sleep.  His  mind  would  not 
contemplate  repose.  Doze  he  sometimes  did,  to  awaken  sharply 
with  such  mastering  thrills  as  set  him  staring,  staring  out  into 
darkness,  his  face  lit  with  a  smile  which  he  self-consciously  feared 
might  be  observed  by  his  companions. 

So  the  night  wore  away.  Rumbling,  jolting,  stopping,  starting 
again;  the  dim,  greenish,  half-veiled  lamp  always  quivering  and 
shaking;  trees  flitting  mistily  past,  and  through  frosted  windows 
a  vague  prospect  of  moonlit  country. 

They  stood  for  an  interminable  time  in  the  silent  glass-covered 
station  of  Hazebroiick.  Daylight  found  them  no  farther  than 
the  sidings  at  St.  Omer,  sandwiched  between  two  troop-trains. 
Looking  at  their  occupants,  obviously  troops  going  "up  the  line" 
for  the  first  time,  Adrian  felt  a  sort  of  joyous  pity.  In  the  measure 
that  he  was  sorry  for  them,  he  was  glad  for  himself.  Thence- 


242  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

forward  the  leave-train  speeded  up,  and  by  ten  o'clock  they  were 
through  the  flat  country,  and  the  snorting  engine  was  taking  in 
water  on  the  arid  outskirts  of  Calais  to  the  monotonous  chant  of 
the  children:  "Bisquee,  s'il  vous  plait,  m'sieur!  Bisquee!  Bisquee, 
s'il  vous  plait!"  And  then,  through  the  sand-dunes,  past  the  great 
new  ranges  of  hospitals  and  camps  beside  the  railway,  they  came 
to  Boulogne.  For  two  or  three  hours,  Adrian's  three  companions 
had  talked  remorselessly  about  the  war.  "Minnies"  and  "whiz- 
bangs"  and  "coal-boxes"  and  "stunts"  played  a  chief  part  in  the 
conversation,  darting  in  and  out  of  it,  like  ladies  and  gentlemen  in 
a  pantomime. 

At  Boulogne  he  found  the  boat  was  not  due  to  start  till  three. 
Plenty  of  time  to  wash,  shave,  and  eat  a  comfortable  meal  at 
the  big  white  hotel  which  fronts  the  quay.  And  what  an  experience 
that  first  breath  of  civilisation  after  four  months!  The  gilt-and- 
marble  hall,  the  red-and-white  dining-room,  the  concierge,  the 
waiters  in  stiff,  shiny  shirt-fronts,  the  white  tablecloths,  the  gleam- 
ing spoons  and  forks,  the  glasses,  the  amazing  cleanliness  of  every- 
thing! All  was  so  surprising,  so  unspeakably  eloquent  and  delight- 
ful. And  what  a  long  step  they  seemed  to  carry  him  towards — 
Rosemary ! 

He  met  officers  whom  he  knew,  but  he  avoided  them  after 
passing  the  time  of  day,  in  order  to  be  at  liberty  to  sit  by  himself 
in  a  corner  and  devour  and  enjoy  every  moment  of  this  reunion 
with  life — this  divine  anticipation. 

At  two  o'clock  he  went  on  board.  Would  his  leave-pass  be 
in  order?  A  frantic,  unreasoning  spasm  of  fear  nearly  choked 
him.  //  .  .  .  ?  But  of  course  it  was  in  order.  And  he  stoutly 
walked  aboard.  There  were  already  scores  of  officers  and  soldiers 
on  the  boat,  crowds  standing  on  the  quayside,  quantities  of  military 
officials;  here  and  there,  a  Frenchman  or  two.  Everybody  had 
a  merry  face,  was  cracking  jokes,  and  forming  noisy  groups  on 
deck.  There  were  gold-laced  and  red-capped  generals ;  many  Staff 
officers.  There  was  a  red-capped  gentleman  bawling  people's  names 
through  a  megaphone.  That  appeared  to  be  very  much  part  of 
the  business  of  embarking.  Now  and  then  the  steamer  hooted 


NIGHTFALL  243 

warningly.  At  the  last  moment  officers  of  the  highest  rank  rushed 
from  nowhere,  throwing  themselves  on  board  and  their  dignity  to 
the  winds.  How  living,  how  amusing  it  all  was! 

Then  they  moved. 

A  level,  blue  winter's  afternoon  sky  smiled  overhead;  a  level, 
blue  sea  waited  without.  And  perhaps  this  was  the  gladdest  part 
of  all  that  glad  journey: — when  the  boat  glided  out  into  the  basin, 
glided  out  among  the  fishing-smacks,  and  Boulogne,  her  piled-up 
houses  and  hotels,  her  spires  and  fort-crowned  hill  in  the  back- 
ground, her  crowded  quays  and  hectic  Anglo-foreign  life,  receded 
into  a  fast-gathering  haze.  For  with  all  that  went  the  war.  .  .  . 
To  the  prospective  bridegroom  pacing  up  and  down  the  encum- 
bered deck  and  looking  now  ahead,  now  backward  at  the  French 
coast,  life  reopened  amazingly.  And  in  it  was  no  guile. 

As  the  day  began  to  wane,  gleams  of  sunshine  made  silvery 
play  upon  the  waves.  Seagulls  hovered  whitely  about  the  masts, 
uttering,  it  seemed  to  Adrian,  cries  of  revelry.  Outside  the  break- 
water they  picked  up  a  destroyer  which  acted  as  flank  guard.  A 
wake  of  snowy  foam  boiled  and  eddied  behind  them.  About 
half-way  across  they  passed  the  returning  leave-boat,  alive  with 
the  khaki  of  those  whose  brief  respite  was  over,  and  who  were 
journeying  back  to  try  their  luck  in  the  great  lottery  once  more. 

From  time  to  time  he  met  his  companions  of  the  train  journey 
and  exchanged  a  word  with  them.  In  addition  to  the  hundreds 
of  soldiers  on  board,  carrying  packs  and  rifles  and  greatcoats,  and 
British  officers,  Staff-capped  and  otherwise,  in  all  shades  of  khaki, 
there  were  foreign  military  attaches,  Americans,  Japanese,  Italians, 
Frenchmen,  Belgians,  civilian  English,  Government  officials  in 
spectacles  and  fur  coats — women,  too,  Red  Cross  nurses,  V.  A.  D.'s, 
and  privileged  refugees. 

From  the  forepart  of  the  boat  Adrian  strained  his  eyes  for  a 
first  glimpse  of  the  English  coast.  Eventually,  however,  it  was 
only  by  the  twinkling  of  suddenly  near  lights  that  he  discovered 
Folkestone.  The  sea  grew  vague  and  grey  in  the  evening;  far 
away  along  the  coast  solitary  revolving  lighthouses  glimmered,  then 
vanished.  He  shivered — first  intimation  of  the  night's  impending 


244  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

frost.  Now  they  glided  within  the  breakwater,  and  he  knew  that 
nothing  but  land  separated  him  from  his  earthly  paradise. 

He  began  counting  the  half-hours,  translating  them  even  into 
minutes.  .  .  .  Queer  little  jerks  of  happiness,  hot  little  thrills  of 
anticipation,  shot  through  him  from  time  to  time.  And  for  all 
the  sharp  bustle  that  went  on  around,  he  was  not  in  spirit  there. 
Yet  how  he  revelled  in  it!  How  he  revelled  in  the  plain,  rough 
faces  of  the  English  porters  who  tumbled  aboard  as  soon  as  the 
boat  drew  to  the  landing-stage,  in  their  coarse,  familiar  speech, 
in  the  physical  sensation  of  stepping  ashore,  in  the  shouts  of  the 
newspaper-boys  and  the  inviting  appearance  of  the  train. 

He  thought  of  sending  a  telegram  to  Rosemary  and  to  his 
mother.  He  did  not  do  so.  His  arrival  should  be  a  complete 
surprise  to  them  both! 

§  3 

A  man  was  made  to  feel  a  hero  in  those  days.  Ladies  approached 
him  on  the  landing-stage,  offering  their  services  for  this,  that,  and 
the  other  thing;  ladies  offered  him,  free  and  gratis,  packets  of 
chocolate,  cups  of  tea,  cigarettes.  For  his  part,  Adrian  made  a 
dash  for  a  seat  in  a  Pullman  car,  where  he  found  an  arm-chair 
and  tea.  Pandemonium  reigned  in  the  station;  it  seemed  as  if 
they  would  never  get  off.  An  officer  who  sat  opposite  made  appro- 
priate remarks  about  the  glad  feeling  of  once  more  setting  foot 
on  native  soil.  Adrian  frankly  pitied  him.  Remarks  of  that  sort 
seemed  ridiculous.  Risking  rudeness,  he  protected  himself  behind 
a  newspaper,  finding  his  own  thoughts  during  this  last  stage  of  his 
journey  too  absorbing,  too  precious  to  waste  or  lose. 

And  he  travelled  through  a  dream  country.  Perhaps  all  did 
in  those  strange  days  on  the  home-coming  leave-train.  .  .  .  The 
whole  journey  to  London  was  unreal,  and  ever  afterwards  re- 
mained unreal,  in  his  mind.  It  was  a  wonderful,  cherished  looking- 
forward,  in  which  he  now  heard  Rosemary  rush  to  the  door,  saw 
her  fling  it  open,  saw  her  look  as  she  welcomed  him;  now  went 
over  in  his  mind  the  plans  for  the  wedding  five  days  hence;  and 


NIGHTFALL  245 

now  with  all  his  senses  was  worshipping  at  the  shrine  of  Rose- 
mary's re-found  beauty.  .  .  .  Again,  it  was  the  moment  of  finding 
themselves  alone,  supremely  unresponsibly,  at  Stavordale  or  Sher- 
ingham — that  moment  when  they  would  set  out  on  the  Great 
Adventure  splendidly,  like  ships  in  full  sail. 

Before  he  realised  it  they  were  in  London.  And  he  was  plunged 
back  into  London,  the  all-embracing  sense  of  London  swayed  him, 
uplifted  him.  And  she  was  in  London!  Already  they  breathed 
the  same  air,  were  divided  by  minutes  only  and  by  yards — and 
still  were  drawing  nearer.  He  experienced  a  curious  sense  of 
imminent  realisation  after  an  infinity  of  looking-forward,  of  im- 
minent crisis — of  crisis  how  great  he  could  not  know.  He  would, 
of  course,  go  straight  to  Grosvenor  Mansions — just  as  he  was — 
as  fast  as  cab  could  carry  him.  .  .  .  The  train  slowed  down  going 
over  Grosvenor  Bridge  and  outside  Victoria  station  stopped.  That 
was  maddening.  He  stood  ready,  waiting,  at  the  door  of  the 
corridor,  haversack  over  shoulder,  stick  in  hand.  He  stood  thus 
a  quarter-of-an-hour,  occasionally  looking  out  of  the  window  and 
seeing  the  foggy,  tantalising  lights  inside  the  station.  Anyone 
watching  closely  the  young  man's  face  in  these  moments,  with  its 
straight  English  features,  sensitive  mouth,  and  dark,  contemplative 
eyes,  might  have  perceived  in  it  an  intensity  of  expression,  a  degree 
of  concentration,  a  dominating  thought  or  idea,  that  boded  ill  for 
him  if  aught  should  cross  the  purpose  of  his  life. 

A  murky  gas-lamp  or  two  burned  in  the  grimy,  high-storied  brick 
buildings  between  which  the  train  stood.  The  dingy  light  showed 
enough  to  suggest  a  yet  more  dingy  interior,  conveying  to  his  mind 
one  swift  negative  picture  of  London  life.  .  .  .  Then  the  train 
moved.  The  train  glided  ever  so  slowly,  ever  so  smoothly  into 
the  wide,  dim-lit  spaces  of  Victoria  station — beside  a  platform 
crowded  with  friends  and  relations,  with  soldiers  and  officials.  He 
glanced  at  the  illuminated  station  clock.  It  was  exactly  seven 
o'clock.  If  he  went  straight  to  Grosvenor  Mansions  he  would 
find  her. 

He  ran  a  race  for  the  nearest  taxicab.     He  won. 

"To  Grosvenor  Mansions,  quickly!" 


246  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

His  voice  was  already  husky  with  excitement.  A  long  line  of 
motor-cars  and  cabs  was  filing  out  of  the  station.  He  was  en- 
thralled by  London's  winter  evening,  by  the  variety  of  sounds  that 
came  to  his  ears — the  shouting  of  newsboys,  the  whir  and  buzz 
of  motor-cars,  the  hootings  of  motor  horns,  the  high-pitched 
whistles  of  railway  engines,  the  shuffling  and  pattering  of  many 
footsteps,  the  omnipresent  roar  of  traffic.  It  was  all  satisfying 
beyond  words. 

Then  he  was  being  whirled  up  Grosvenor  Place,  the  gloom  of 
which  seemed,  if  anything,  intensified  since  the  previous  autumn. 
In  his  preoccupation  he  had  forgotten  to  wash  or  tidy  himself 
in  the  train.  He  now  frenziedly  tried  to  improve  his  appearance, 
smoothing  his  hair  and  arranging  his  tie  in  deference  to — Lady 
Cranf  ord ! 

Would  her  ladyship  be  in  the  drawing-room,  or  would  their 
first  few  moments  be  alone  together?  His  future  mother-in-law 
might  with  luck  be  resting  or  writing  letters  in  her  bedroom.  In 
any  case,  Rosemary  would  certainly  rush  out  into  the  hall.  He 
had  only  to  ring.  Intuition  would  tell  her  the  rest! 

The  cab  flew  across  Hdye  Park  Corner,  up  Park  Lane  and, 
turning  down  Mount  Street,  drew  up  at  the  familiar  portals  of 
Grosvenor  Mansions.  ...  At  this  penultimate  moment  he  de- 
layed, he  hesitated.  Should  he  enter?  Should  he  prolong  the 
sweet  agony  awhile — go  home  and  change,  then  return?  Should 
he  walk  up  and  down  for  a  few  minutes  and  prepare  a  little 
speech  ? 

He  did  neither.  He  paid  of!  the  driver  with  a  cheerful  good  night 
and  a  double  fare.  It  was  good  in  itself  to  pay  a  taxi-driver 
again,  above  all,  that  god  in  a  car  who  had  driven  him  from  the 
station  to  the  threshold  of  his  happiness. 

He  entered.  The  stone  stairs  were  very  dark,  as  always  at 
Grosvenor  Mansions.  There  was  fear  of  air-raids,  of  course.  The 
lift-man  was  absent — as  usual.  It  was  all  happening  so  exactly 
as  he  had  rehearsed  it  over  and  over  again  in  his  mind,  as  he  had 
countless  times  pictured  the  situation  to  himself! 

He  tramped  noisily  up  the  oft-counted  steps,  no  sound  coming 


NIGHTFALL  247 

back  to  him  but  his  own  echo.  He  thought  with  a  smile  of  the 
last  occasion  of  his  mounting  them,  when  together  they  had  crept 
up  like  burglars.  Reaching  the  fourth  floor,  he  expected  to  see 
light  under  the  front  door.  This  evening  there  was  none.  So 
the  switch  had  been  turned  off  in  the  hall — a  new  measure  of 
economy!  He  paused  to  regain  breath  before  ringing.  One — two 
• — three  seconds  .  .  .  and  they  would  be  together. 


§  4 

He  felt  for  and  pressed  the  bell.  The  immediate  stir  within 
that  he  had  expected  did  not  come.  How  often  before  had  his 
first  ring  not  been  heard !  He  pressed  the  button  again  and  waited 
with  nerves  aquiver.  The  flat  remained  silent.  .  .  . 

The  truth,  however,  dawned  upon  him.  But  of  course!  How 
had  that  possibility — nay,  probability — not  occurred  to  him  before ! 
Rosemary  and  Lady  Cranford  had  gone  out  early  for  the  evening 
— to  a  theatre  or  a  dinner-party — and  the  servants,  after  the 
manner  of  their  kind,  had  gone  out  too!  He  would  stroll  round 
to  his  club— the  house  in  Eaton  Square  had  been  sold — make 
sure  of  his  room,  wash,  have  dinner,  and  return,  by  which  time 
there  would  certainly  be  somebody  in  the  flat. 

Yet  it  was  with  a  half-acknowledged  disappointment  that  he 
descended  the  steps. 

He  had  barely  reached  the  second  floor  when  the  jar-r-r  of  a 
taxicab  drawing  up  at  the  entrance  of  the  Mansions  came  to  his 
ears,  followed  by  the  hard  metallic  ring  which  proclaims  that  the 
driver  is  being  paid  off. 


CHAPTER  V 
God-forgotten 


HE  knew  it  was  she.    And,  knowing,  heard  the  rippling  laugh  that 
had  something  of  a  brook's  music  in  it  and  something  of  a  bird's. 

Then  he  heard  a  man's  voice.  .  .  . 

With  that  he  stopped.  He  had  reached  the  landing  of  the 
second  floor.  The  couple  could  be  heard  entering  the  main  outer 
door  of  the  flats.  Were  they  coming  up?  Whoever  her  com- 
panion might  be,  Adrian  had  no  wish  for  a  formal  meeting  then. 

There  were  upon  every  landing  two  doors,  each  giving  entrance 
to  a  flat,  together  with  a  deep  recess  which  gave  access  to  the  lift. 
Into  one  of  these  recesses  he  stepped.  He  was  in  complete  dark- 
ness. 

That  was  the  doing  of  a  second.  The  couple  now  stood  in 
the  hall  beneath.  They  were  laughing  and  talking. 

The  man  pleaded. 

''My  Rosebud! — yes.     Now — quickly!    Just — just — this  once!" 

He  knew  that  voice.     He  froze. 

He  drew  back  into  the  recess  so  that,  did  they  pass  within  a 
hand's  breadth,  he  could  not  be  seen. 

He  heard  her  laugh. 

"No!" 

In  the  word  was  witchery  but  not  denial. 

"But  who's  up  there,  beautiful  child?  Your  mother?  The 
servants?" 

"Nobody.  Mamma's  away  till  to-morrow.  I  told  the  servants 
they  might  go  out." 

248 


GOD-FORGOTTEN  249 

"Then — I  can  come  up  for  a  leetle  while  .  .  .  just  a  minute — • 
or  two  .  .  .  baby  .  .  .  mine?" 

"You're  not  allowed  to  call  me  things  like  that!"  She  laughed 
again,  her  voice  vibrant  with  unmistakable  excitement.  "Don't! 
.  .  .  Don't  pinch  my  arm!" 

"My  Virgin  Mary — my  beautiful,  maddening  angel — but — yes 
— yes.  .  .  ." 

His  voice  became  insistent — urgent,  rapid. 

"Perhaps  he'll  be  back  to-morrow — you  never  know — perhaps — 
this  is  the  last  time?" 

"I  say  NO!" 

There  was  petulance  in  the  words — but  what  else? 

"We've  had  some  wonderful  times  together,  Harry;  now  don't 
spoil  it  all!" 

"But  I— must  .  .  .  Rose !" 

In  the  recess  the  listener  trembled  as  one  whose  last  hour  is 
come. 

He  knew  Upton  had  seized  her,  though  he  could  see  nothing. 
There  came  the  sound  of  a  kiss.  .  .  . 

Then  she  rushed  upstairs,  one,  two  steps  at  a  time — breathless, 
panting,  gurgling  out  her  low  laugh. 

She  brushed  past  him.  Her  sleeve  touched  him,  he  neither  mov- 
ing nor  making  any  sound.  Upton  followed. 

Higher  and  higher  they  rushed,  until  he  could  hear  nothing  but 
their  echoing  footsteps. 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  followed  by  the  click  of  a  key  in  a 
Yale  lock.  A  laughing  cry.  The  bang  of  a  door. 

Silence. 


Some  time  in  the  course  of  that  night  Adrian  Knoyle  found 
himself  sitting  on  a  seat  in  Hyde  Park,  opposite  the  Serpentine. 

It  was  cold.  Stars  winked,  remote  and  passionless.  There  was 
a  distant  sound  like  the  faint  murmur  of  the  sea.  Close  at  hand 
he  heard  water  lapping. 

Probably  he  had  been  sitting  on  the  seat  a  long  time.     His  feet 


250  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

and  hands  were  numb;  his  senses,  too.  He  turned  on  the  iron 
bench  and  raised  a  hand  to  his  head,  to  his  temples.  They  were 
throbbing — throbbing. 

Too  weary  or  too  dazed  to  think  or  discriminate,  he  stared 
vacantly  out  across  the  quiet,  mysterious  water  to  the  dim  trees 
on  the  far  shore.  He  murmured  to  himself  again  and  again,  "This 
is  the  end — this  is  the  end." 

He  could  neither  think  nor  realise  nor  care;  and  when  a  police- 
man, stalking  past,  turned  upon  him  the  full  glare  of  a  bull's-eye 
lantern,  he  did  not  move.  The  policeman  was  probably  surprised. 
Expecting  to  find  some  abandoned  woman,  some  drunkard  or  home- 
less wanderer,  he  saw — a  British  officer. 

He  hesitated,  then  passed  on. 

§2 

And  the  night  passed  on.  The  murmur  as  of  the  sea  died  away. 
At  last  complete  silence  prevailed — that  terrifying  silence  which 
encompasses  the  unsleeping  in  the  midst  of  a  city. 

It  must  have  been  in  the  smallest,  coldest  hours  of  the  morning 
that  this  silence  was  broken  by  a  wild  and  desolate  cry. 

It  might  have  been  laughter,  brazen  and  cruel.  It  might  have 
been  a  woman's  scream.  It  might  have  been  the  choking  shriek  of 
a  drowning  man. 

The  sound  came  again,  wild,  piercing,  sad.  .  .  . 

It  came  yet  a  third  time  and  could  now  be  traced  to  a  low, 
wooded  islet  some  two  hundred  paces  distant  out  in  the  water. 

It  was  succeeded  presently  by  what  seemed  to  be  the  subdued 
murmuring  of  a  number  of  waterfowl. 

During  the  whole  of  the  night  this  was  the  only  separate  sound 
to  penetrate  his  brain.  During  the  whole  of  the  night  this  was 
the  only  sound  to  whip  him  into  recollection. 

Hearing  it,  he  rose  and  walked  violently  up  and  down  by  the 
waterside.  All  came  back  to  him,  all  rushed  back  upon  him — 
with  this  mocking  echo  of  a  former  life. 

"It  is  the  end,"  he  murmured,  "it  is  the  end." 


GOD-FORGOTTEN  251 

In  the  next  moment  and  for  the  first  time  there  presented  itself 
to  his  mind  a  clear  realisation  of  what  had  befallen  him.  No 
sooner  had  the  moment  passed  than  anger  mastered  him,  shook 
him  to  the  innermost  deeps  of  his  being,  set  him  quivering  as  one 
in  a  convulsion. 

That  moment,  too,  passed.  The  alternative  was — misery.  What 
use,  what  meaning  had  anything  for  him  now? 

She  who  had  promised  herself  to  him,  pledged  herself  to  him — 
not  once  only — consecrated  herself  to  him,  forsworn  herself,  de- 
manded all  of  him  in  return  and  received  all — his  forgiveness, 
his  allegiance,  his  adoration,  his  body,  soul,  and  spirit,  his  life's 
blood,  his  life's  hopes,  his  life's  dreams,  the  innermost  sanctuary 
of  his  trust  .  .  .  what  signified  these  things  now? 

Mercifully  he  was  alone.  Mercifully  there  were  none  to  see 
or  hear  him  who  like  a  stricken  animal  had  fled  to  be  alone,  far 
as  might  be  from  his  kind.  None  should  see  or  hear  him  in  the 
abasement  of  his  anger  and  his  grief,  even  as  none  but  the  birds 
and  the  trees  and  the  sunshine  had  been  their  witnesses  in  the 
dayspring  of  their  love. 

With  that,  hotfoot,  came  anger,  mastering,  verging  upon  mad- 
ness; not  against  Upton,  indeed — who  was  no  more  than  some 
loathsome  insect  in  his  sight — but  against  this  other  who  had  been 
his  life's  very  heart. 

Blood  flows  from  the  lips  which  teeth  pierce.  Nails  grind  into 
the  palms.  False  as  the  kiss  in  Gethsemane.  .  .  .  Blood  flowed — 
did  it  not? — and  there  were  scars  in  the  Hands — on  Calvary  day. 


§  3 

Illusive  calm  succeeded. 

And  with  calm,  words  of  his  mother,  prophetic,  wiser  than  he! 

"Never  let  life  knock  you  down.  Meet  it  fair  and  square,  and 
if  it  hits  you  hard,  give  to  it  like  a  tense  spring — and  spring 
back." 

And  again: 

"One  cannot  live:  one  cannot  die,  one  cannot  love  or  hope  or 


252  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

know  or  achieve  in  life  without  suffering,  without  experience. 
Remember  that,  whether  it's  the  horror  and  the  dreadfulness  of 
the  time  are  breaking  your  heart  or  whether — whether — it's  any- 
thing else.  Suffering  is  the  crucifixion  of  each  one  of  us.  .  .  ." 

Her  belief  sprang — as  her  whole  nature  did,  her  innate  good- 
ness, her  woman's  strength — from  some  Higher  Power.  And  he — 
what  had  he  to  do  with  God,  or  God  with  him?  Yesterday — 
the  day  before — in  his  boyhood — he  might  have  believed,  had 
believed,  in  some  unformed  yet  all-seeing,  all-pitying,  and  em- 
bracing intelligence.  Was  not  his  betrothed,  had  not  Life  itself 
been  an  expression,  a  pledge  of  divinity,  of  pity  or  hope,  in  human 

turmoil  and  existence?     But  now !     Where  was  this  God — 

of  love?  On  the  battlefield  where  men  killed  and  died,  were 
crucified  and  came  to  their  Supreme  Agony  with  blasphemy,  with 
hatred  on  their  lips?  Within  himself?  Murder  in  the  heart 
where  Love  reigned.  Where  was  this  God?  .  .  .  Nowhere  in- 
deed for  him — who  was  God-forgotten. 

§  4 

Sense  of  actuality  returned.  And  with  it  loneliness.  To  be 
physically  alone  is  not  loneliness.  It  is  often  happiness ;  it  is  often 
peace.  But  there  descended  upon  him  now  a  loneliness  of  the 
soul,  a  sense  of  severance  that  was  destroying,  annihilating.  He 
became  aware  of  intense  individual  separateness ;  of  the  individual 
in  the  mass,  each  battling  along  his  solitary  road,  each  road  leading 
to  a  different  goal,  parallel  roads,  but  none  converging;  of  an 
eternal  parting  of  ways— each  striving  soul  a  world  unto  itself. 
He  who  had  once  believed  in  unity  and  love,  in  the  fusion  upon 
earth  of  two  mortal  beings  as  an  Entity,  ideal,  indivisible,  who 
had  experienced  the  perfection  of  spiritual  union,  had  anticipated 
the  unity  of  twin-minds — and  upon  that  had  pinned  his  faith! 

Well,  it  was  ended:  ended  their  companionship,  their  mutual 
perfection,  the  jointure  and  the  completion  of  their  lives;  ended 
to-night  a  hundred  secrets,  a  hundred  lifelong  moments  and  dis- 
coveries, a  hundred  common  experiences,  that  none  other  might 


GOD-FORGOTTEN  253 

touch,  complete  or  share;  ended  a  chapter  which  could  never  be 
reopened  and  to  which  neither  of  them  could  ever  turn  back.  All 
was  shattered,  all  shattered  in  a  world  that,  within  a  few  brief 
months,  had  become  nightmare,  madness,  chaos  blinder  than  human 
eyes  could  pierce.  His  hopes,  his  illusions,  his  optimism,  his  self- 
certainty — killed  in  five  minutes;  aye,  and  the  very  motive-spark  of 
Life  itself. 

There  was  one  thing  more  terrible  than  Death — finality  in  Life. 

§  5 

The  Park  lay  grey  and  quiet  about  him.  Misty  moonlight 
filtered  in  between  the  trees.  Always  the  Serpentine  water  lapped, 
and  was  lapping  at  his  feet. 

That  was  the  voice  he  perpetually  heard — the  lapping  water — 
whispering,  whispering  to  him  like  a  cool,  steadfast  undernote 
of  sympathy  in  the  torment  and  dissonance  of  his  mind. 

Death! 

This  the  word  the  voice  of  the  water  whispered.  .  .  . 

All  through  his  pacings  up  and  down,  all  through  his  violence, 
his  grief,  recrimination,  anger,  and  despair,  this  voice  had  whispered 
to  him :  gently,  understandingly,  tenderly,  lovingly — but  insistently. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  it  at  first.  Hearing,  he  was  hardly 
conscious  of  it.  But  it  persisted;  it  insisted.  He  went  over  to 
the  waterside  and  stood,  gazing  down — thinking  .  .  .  thinking. 

And  even  as  he  listened  to  the  soothing  voice,  his  wretched  mind 
revolved  the  words  that  she  had  uttered  in  the  beechwood: 

"I'm  not  sure,  I'm  not  sure  of  myself.  I  wish,  oh!  I  wish 
1  knew  myself." 

Like  a  whirlpool  unpent,  the  flood-tide  of  his  misery  burst  forth, 
breaking  all  dams,  seizing  him  upon  its  incalculable  current,  over- 
mastering him,  hurling  him  into  vortex.  He  began  to  moan  and 
then  to  croon  her  name  to  himself  again  and  again. 

"Rosemary!  .  .  .  Rosemary!  .  .  .  Rosemary!" 

And  then: 

"Rosie!     My  darling!     My  own,  own  love!     How  could  you 


254  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

deceive  me?    How  could  you  desert  me — forget  me?    How  could 
you  treat  me  so?" 

He  sank  down  upon  the  iron  seat  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

§6 

Still  the  voice  of  the  water  whispered — that  voice  to  which  so 
many  in  this  same  place  had  listened,  and  made  answer : — of  escape, 
of  an  alternative,  of  an  ending. 

Death! 

Becoming  calmer,  he  crossed  the  path,  and  gazed  once  more 
at  the  little  waves  lapping  the  stony  shore. 

It  was  tempting.  It  was  restful  and  alluring.  It  was  lonely 
and  quiet — and  near  her — and  yet  in  the  midst  of  life. 

But  no!  .  .  .  He  could  not,  could  not — here.  God-forgotten 
he  might  be,  but  drag  her  name  through  the  mire  of  such  a  sequel 
— he  could  not.  Too  fearful,  too  drab  an  ending,  that,  too  soiled 
and  ugly  a  curtain  to  what,  after  all,  in  its  little  hour,  had  been 
a  good  and  a  beautiful  thing. 

Fate  held  for  him  a  worthier  weapon  than  that. 

Across  the  sea,  Death  waited — on  the  battlefield,  in  the  trenches, 
by  the  wayside.  Arms  wide  to  embrace,  sleep  strong  to  enfold, 
a  friend  there,  faithful  and  true.  Constant  and  tender  lover,  she, 
not  to  deny  him,  not  to  betray  him.  To  her  embrace,  loving, 
everlasting,  he  would  go. 


Daylight  stalked  among  the  trees,  paling  such  few  lamps  as 
were  visible. 

He  still  sat  on,  but  by  slow  processes  reason  insisted.  What 
should  he  do  as  a  first  step  ?  Soon  the  park  gates  would  be  open — 
if  they  were  not  already.  His  instinct,  still  that  of  a  hunted 
animal  or  outcast  felon,  was  to  escape,  hide,  creep  away,  meet 
nobody — escape  at  all  costs  from  this  city  of  his  sorrows. 

He  felt  in  his  inner  pocket  the  notebook  containing  his  leave- 


GOD-FORGOTTEN  255 

pass — that  so-precious  yellow  ticket!  He  scanned  it.  "Special 
leave"  was  written  in  red  ink  in  the  left-hand  corner,  "Urgent 
family  reasons"  was  added  in  brackets.  He  thought  for  several 
moments,  staring  blankly  at  the  slip  of  paper.  .  .  .  Wherein  lay 
the  significance  of  those  reasons  now? 

He  tore  a  leaf  from  his  pocket-book  and  covered  it  with  pencilled 
handwriting  very  quickly.     He  read  over  what  he  had  written: 

"When  I  left  you  to  return  to  France,  your  last  words  were 
a  prayer  that  I  might  come  back  to  you.  I  came  back — last 
night.  I  heard  everything.  Good-bye." 

He  addressed  an  envelope  and  put  the  note  in  his  pocket.    Then 
he  rose  and  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  Marble  Arch. 


§7 

Workmen  and  shop-people  were  already  beginning  to  stream 
across  the  park  to  their  daily  avocations.  Many  looked  curiously 
at  the  mud-stained,  haggard  officer  who  strode  past.  They  made 
a  mental  note  that  this  one  was  really  from  the  trenches;  and 
that  he  had  had  a  bad  time. 

He  made  his  way  to  a  small  private  hotel  in  Bayswater,  where 
he  booked  a  room  for  half  a  day.  He  washed  and  shaved,  scraped 
the  mud  from  his  uniform,  and  had  tea  and  dry  toast  brought 
up  to  his  room. 

At  a  quarter  before  ten  he  called  for  a  taxicab,  and  was  driven 
to  the  War  Office  by  way  of  South  Audley  Street,  and  so  past 
Grosvenor  Mansions.  The  streets  seemed  oddly  empty  as  the 
cab  whirred  up  Piccadilly,  past  the  Hotel  Astoria.  He  looked 
neither  to  right  nor  left.  Not  many  had  assembled  in  the  waiting- 
hall  of  the  War  Office  at  this  early  hour.  A  messenger  led  him 
up  two  flights  of  stairs,  and  by  labyrinthine  passages  to  one  of 
many  doors.  An  elderly  Staff  Officer  wearing  an  eyeglass  came 
out  intrt  the  passage. 


256  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

Good  morning!    What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Adrian  saluted. 

"I've  a  special  leave  pass  for  one  month  issued  for  urgent  family 
reasons.  Those  reasons  no  longer  hold  good,  and  I  should  like 
to  know  whether  I  can  return  to  my  regiment  at  once." 

"H'm!"  The  officer  smiled  in  an  accommodating  manner, 
glanced  at  the  yellow  ticket  and  thought  a  moment.  "Better  take 
the  leave  and  say  nothing  about  the  reasons."  He  nodded,  as 
though  the  interview  might  be  considered  at  an  end,  and  turned 
to  go. 

"But  I  want " 

"That'll  be  all  right." 

" 1  think  I  ought  to  go  back,  sir." 

The  officer  looked  surprised. 

"What?  You  want  to  go  back?  You're  either  a  very  keen 
soldier,  or  an  exceptionally  honest  young  man — probably  both. 
You  mean  you  want  your  leave  washed  out?" 

The  officer  looked  at  the  applicant  kindly,  as  one  looks  at  a 
lunatic. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"All  right  then.  So  be  it.  Give  me  the  pass."  He  took  the 
leave  warrant,  altered  the  date  and  initialled  it.  "The  return 
train  leaves  Victoria  at  twelve.  Good  luck!" 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

Adrian  returned  to  his  hotel,  again  passing  the  Astoria  and 
again  passing  Grosvenor  Mansions.  He  paid  his  bill,  slung  his 
haversack  over  his  shoulder,  and  drove  to  the  station,  on  the  way 
posting  a  letter. 


Eighteen  hours  later,  he  was  trudging  back  along  the  road  that 
led  to  the  trenches.  His  face  was  hidden  by  the  upturned  collar 
of  his  coat,  his  eyes  looked  towards  an  horizon  above  which  white 
star-lights  slowly,  silently,  rose  and  fell.  For  it  was  night. 

Rain  fell,  too.     Rain  fell  steadily,  implacably,  blotting  out  the 


GOD-FORGOTTEN  257 

landscape,  making  pools  of  the  deep  holes  and  ruts  in  the  road. 
It  is  probable  he  saw  nothing  of  the  lights  nor  felt  the  rain  against 
his  cheeks,  nor  knew  that  he  was  wet  through. 

He  came  to  the  shattered  village,  Laventie,  with  its  derelict 
railway  station  and  its  broken  church.  As  he  entered  it,  a  naval 
gun  began  to  fire  at  intervals  from  the  railway,  such  being  its 
habit  at  midnight.  The  ghostly  battered  street  was  deserted  except 
for  a  sentry  tramping  up  and  down  outside  a  Brigade  Head- 
quarters. 

He  was  challenged. 

He  inquired  of  the  sentry  whether  his  battalion  was  in  the 
village.  The  reply  was  that  it  had  gone  that  evening  into  the 
front-line  trenches. 

Two  miles  more.  The  rain  plashed  mercilessly,  but  the  star- 
lights seemed  nearer. 

There  was  a  sandbag  breastwork  across  the  road.  The  mud 
was  ankle-deep.  There  were  shell-holes.  Adrian  stumbled  for- 
ward, neither  feeling,  seeing,  nor  caring.  Weak  from  emotional 
stress  and  lack  of  food  and  sleep,. he  lurched  to  this  side  and  that; 
once  .or  twice  he  shufflingly  fell. 

Some  distance  off  a  field  gun  fired  with  a  flash  and  quick  glare 
out  of  the  gloom  of  what  seemed  to  be  one  vast  surrounding 
moorland.  Occasionally  a  stray  shell  went  moaning  overhead. 

He  entered  a  communication-trench  with  slimy  sides  and  so 
slimy  underfoot  that  he  could  not  stand  up.  The  skeleton  of  a 
ruined  farmhouse  grinned  down  at  him,  and  a  bullet  flattened 
itself  with  a  startling  "crack"  against  the  solitary  standing  wall. 
Rats  scurried  away  from  him. 

He  came  to  the  front  line.  He  could  dimly  perceive  the  figures 
of  sentries  muffled  in  waterproof  capes  silhouetted  against  the 
familiar  pale  glow  that  never  left  the  night  sky  above  Lille.  For 
the  rest,  the  trench  was  utterly  deserted,  nor  was  there  any  sound 
but  the  steady  drip!  drip!  of  the  rain. 

He  made  for  the  old  Company  Headquarters  and  lifted  the 
split  sandbag  that  curtained  the  entrance.  Eric  sat  on  a  ration-box 
writing  by  candle-light.  The  dug-out  looked  precisely  as  it  had 


258  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

looked  on  Christmas  night  except  that  now  the  floor  was  a  foot 
or  so  deeper  under  water. 

The  company-commander  looked  up,  and  seeing  a  haggard  face 
framed  in  the  opening,  said  sharply: 

"What  do  you  want?" 

Then  his  face  changed. 

"The  devil !" 

Adrian  staggered  down  the  steps  into  the  low  chamber  and 
reeled  against  the  table. 

"What  on  earth's  happened?    Why  are  you  back ?" 

"It's — well,  it's  over.    So  ...  I've  come  back." 

Eric  said: 

"All  right,  old  boy.  Tell  me  about  it  in  the  morning.  Sit  down 
here  by  the  brazier.  Get  out  of  these  things.  .  .  .  Have  a  drink!" 

He  poured  out  neat  whisky,  almost  forcing  it  down  his  friend's 
throat.  He  then  dragged  off  the  latter's  dripping  garments,  laid 
him  down  upon  a  wire-netting  bed  which  stood  in  a  corner  just 
above  the  water's  level,  and  tucked  him  up  with  a  greatcoat  as  one 
tucks  up  a  sick  person. 

Day  once  more  breaking  above  the  rain-soaked  Flanders  plain, 
found  him  still  sitting,  watching  there. 


CHAPTER  VI 
Underworld 


ADRIAN  KNOYLE  took  the  ten  days'  leave  to  which  he  was  or- 
dinarily entitled,  in  the  South  of  France.  He  at  first  protested 
that  having  had  a  portion  of  the  leave  due,  he  was  very  willing  to 
forgo  the  rest  and  remain  with  the  battalion.  Eric  Sinclair  merely 
observed  that  this  was  nonsense,  and  settled  the  matter  out  of  hand. 
Nor  in  reality  was  Adrian  loth  to  go.  He  longed  for  solitude — 
for  quiet — to  think  things  out.  In  the  battalion,  this  was  out  of 
the  question,  and  he  found  difficulty  in  facing  the  inquisitive  eyes, 
the  curious  comments  that  he  knew  were  being  passed  upon  his 
unexpected  return.  He  had  given  out  that  the  family  business 
which*  had  called  him  home  had  been  settled  unexpectedly.  But 
gossip  and  inquiry  had  their  way  in  a  life  that  was  monotony  itself. 
Arthur  Cornwallis,  who  held  the  clue,  read  much  in  his  friend's 
demeanour,  but  held  his  peace.  George  Walker,  essaying  some 
rallying  jest  upon  the  subject  of  the  erratic  movements  of  young 
men  in  the  spring,  was  very  promptly  suppressed  by  Eric. 

And  Eric  proved  right  to  insist  on  his  friend's  leave  being  taken. 
The  complete  change  of  atmosphere,  of  climate  and  surroundings, 
the  solitude  in  which  he  wrapped  himself  at  Nice,  proved  beneficial. 
Adrian  returned  in  at  least  a  comparatively  normal  frame  of  mind. 

Already  the  earliest  days  of  April  were  beginning  to  bring 
warmth,  sunshine  and  illusive  hope  to  a  weary  and  an  embittered 
land.  An  unforgettable  winter  had  passed.  The  Battle  of  Verdun 
still  racked  Europe  with  its  massed  slaughter  and  ferocity.  But 
once  more  the  fighters  girded  themselves,  setting  their  teeth  ironly 
for — they  knew  not  what.  Few  among  them,  perhaps,  saw  sanely, 

259 


260  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

could  think  in  terms  of  normality  or  humanity  or,  counting  the 
days,  could  call  their  lives  their  own.  All  felt  the  irony  of  an 
impending  doom  which,  accompanied  by  bursting  buds  of  trees 
and  flowers,  by  mating  songs  of  birds,  by  the  lush  green  of  new 
grass,  fresh  scents,  and  gay  colouring  of  fruit  blossom  in  French 
and  Belgian  gardens — ushered  in  the  spring. 

During  Knoyle's  absence  the  whole  Division  moved  to  the 
neighbourhood  of  Ypres.  On  his  return  he  found  a  letter  awaiting 
him.  It  ran: 

"37,  Grosvenor  Mansions, 

"Mount  Street,  W. 

"Monday. 
"DEAR  ADRIAN, 

"Thanks  for  your  note,  though  I  could  hardly  read  it. 

"As  for  what  it  means  I  haven't  the  vaguest  idea,  except  that 
you  seem  to  have  written  it  in  rather  a  pet — and  then  rushed 
back  to  France  like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head.  I  rang  up  your 
club,  and  they  said  they  knew  nothing  of  your  whereabouts  and 
hadn't  even  seen  you. 

"One  thing  I  do  know,  though.  I'm  not  going  to  marry  a 
man  who  always  wants  to  be  spying  on  my  incomings  and  out- 
goings and  gets  jealous  at  the  slightest  excuse.  Life's  not  long 
enough. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  I've  talked  to  Gina,  who  knows  the 
world  better  than  anybody,  about  it,  and  she  quite  agrees.  She 
says  you've  never  taken  the  trouble  to  understand  Harry,  and 
he  wants  a  lot  of  understanding — and  I  don't  think  you  ever 
will.  He's  frightfully  clever  and  brilliant,  and  that's  what  you 
don't  appreciate.  But  I  do.  See? 

"The  fact  is  you  ask  too  much  and  don't  give  enough  in 
return.  You're  beastly  selfish. 

"By-the-by,  will  you  please  return  all  my  letters,  as  it  would 
be  rather  a  bore  their  being  read,  if  anything  happened  to  you. 

'  'Good-bye-ee-e-e. 

"ROSEMARY. 


UNDERWORLD  261 

"P.S. — Have  you  read  'Stars/  the  successer  (sic)  of  'Rays'? 
We're  all  going  to  a  party  given  by  Venetia  Romane  in  honour 
of  its  huge  success,  to-night!" 

Adrian  did  not  reply  to  this  communication.  The  letters  re- 
ferred to  had  already  been  destroyed. 

§   2 

He  had  not  so  far  spoken  even  to  Eric  of  the  disaster  that  now 
overshadowed  his  life.  Eric,  of  course,  had  at  once  divined  the 
truth — may  even  have  been  prepared  for  it.  But  he  asked  no 
questions.  It  was  not  his  way.  He  knew  well  enough  that  in  his 
own  time  his  friend  would  broach  the  subject,  would  open  his 
heart. 

In  due  course  Adrian  did.  But  not  until  after  his  return  from 
the  South;  not  until  after  Rosemary's  letter  put  their  severance 
beyond  all  doubt.  The  interval  had  tided  him  over  the  first  shock, 
under  the  influence  of  which  he  had  felt  unable  to  speak  of  the 
matter  even  to  his  closest  friend.  Nor  did  this  reticence  imply  any 
loosening  of  trust  between  the  two.  Rather  it  revealed  to  them 
both  an  instinctive  sympathy. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  after  Adrian's  return  they  went  out 
riding  together.  They  took  the  military  road  which,  skirting  the 
town  of  Poperinghe,  led  across  country  to  the  neighbourhood  of 
Ruisbrugge  and  Proven.  The  landscape  was  uncannily  flat.  Be- 
tween the  innumerable  roads,  watched  by  their  sentinel  trees,  lay 
wide  tracts  of  minutely-cultivated  land,  acres  of  vegetables  and 
hops,  little  cornfields,  root-crops  and  the  like,  these  being  freely 
dotted  with  brick  cottages,  villages,  and  farmhouses  of  a  non- 
descript type.  Nearer  Ypres  there  were  areas  of  young  oakwood 
broken  up  by  the  encampments  and  cantonments  and  hut-villages 
of  the  troops,  but  welcome  alike  for  their  shade  from  the  growing 
heat  of  the  sun  and  for  the  protection  they  afforded  from  the 
enemy's  aerial  eyes.  For  the  rest,  the  whole  countryside  was  alive 
with  men  and  the  doings  and  the  workings  of  men.  Here,  new 


262  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

railways  being  constructed;  there,  new  roads.  Here  work-shops, 
great  lorry  parks  and  horse  lines,  there  endless  rows  of  wooden 
huts,  tents  innumerable,  and  hideous  tin  erections.  The  main 
highways  carried  an  unceasing  stream  of  traffic.  Everywhere  men 
— English  soldiers,  negroes,  Kaffirs,  Chinamen,  Frenchmen,  Bel- 
gians, Indians,  Egyptians,  Canadians,  German  prisoners,  a  dozen 
nationalities  intermingling. 

Not  until  they  came  to  the  comparatively  quiet  byways  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Proven  Chateau  (the  Headquarters  of  an 
Army),  with  its  pleasant  gardens,  drives,  and  grassy  spaces — 
reminiscent  of  an  English  country  house — and  its  great  white  build- 
ing, could  they  converse  at  ease.  As  they  walked  their  horses  side 
by  side  along  a  dusty  track,  Adrian  said : 

"What  news  of  Faith  lately?" 

"She's  still  working  away  at  Arden.  Poor  old  Cyril  has  had 
another  operation.  His  lordship  is  being  desperately  efficient  down 
on  the  East  Coast.  I  suppose  it's  the  privilege  of  the  elderly  to 
be  enthusiastic.  He's  doing  all  he  knows  to  get  a  battalion  out 
here,  she  says.  They  still  live  in  mortal  terror  that  he'll  succeed. 
That  sort  of  man  is  apt  to.  .  .  ." 

"Your  future  father-in-law?     When's  it  likely  to  come  off?" 

Eric  had  always  been  scrupulously  tactful  in  evading  the  subject 
of  his  own  engagement.  But  now  it  had  been  broached  he  said: 

"Oh,  goodness  knows!  As  you're  aware  the  old  boy  is  very 
obstinate;  he's  absolutely  got  his  back  up  against  war  marriages. 
I  should  like  it  to  have  been " 

He  checked  himself.    Adrian  completed  the  sentence. 

"Next  leave." 

"Yes — but  it's  out  of  the  question.  I  sometimes  wonder  whether 
it  ever  will  come  off." 

"Oh!    It  will." 

"You're  always  so  deucedly  optimistic.     Why?" 

"Because  you're  fond  of  her  and  she's  fond  of  you.  And — she's 
a  good  sort." 

"That's  true,"  Eric  agreed. 

"Faith's  one  in  a  thousand,  you  know." 


UNDERWORLD  263 

"She  is." 

"All  women  are  not  like  Faith.     They're  a  queer  lot.  .  .  ." 

"No.    She's  one  of  the  best." 

Eric  almost  dreaded  what  was  coming. 

"Eric — you  know  about  me,  and  .  .  .  her?" 

When  it  came  to  the  point  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  utter 
that  name.  To  do  so,  to  utter  the  name  was  pain.  But  he  found 
no  difficulty  in  mentioning  the  subject  to  Eric  now;  only  reluctance 
to  go  over  each  little  miserable  detail. 

Eric  said:  "No,  I  don't  know.  Tell  me.  What  the  devil's 
happened?" 

"We've  .  .  .  crashed.  For  good,  so  far  as  I'm  concerned.  She 
is — well,  she  likes  somebody  else." 

His  tone  was  level  and  quiet. 

"That— chap?" 

"You  saw  it  going  on,  then  ?" 

"I  saw — something.  I  heard — things — vaguely  when  I  was  on 
leave.  But  I  never  thought  of — anything  like  that." 

"One  wouldn't.  Well — that's  why  I  came  back.  I  wanted  to 
get  away  from  it  all,  from  London — from  England.  My  only 
hope  is  that  we  may  never  meet  again  in  this  world." 

Eric  did  not  respond  at  once.  He  was  not  sure  how  best  to 
deal  with  the  situation.  And  he  was  afraid  of  touching  unneces- 
sarily on  some  sensitive  spot.  Presently  he  said: 

"You  feel  that  way  now — naturally.  .  .  .  But  next  leave — 
you'll  go  and  see  her.  You'll  make  it  up.  All  women  are  like 
that.  You  needn't  get  desperate  about  it.  They  don't  mean  it 
half  the  time.  They  can't  help  it,  poor  wretches." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  that  blasted  London  again." 

"Oh,  my  dear  chap  .  .  .  really!" 

"Eric — no.  She's  been  all  my  life,  these  last  two  years — since 
I've  lived  at  all — all  my  present  and  future,  all  my  past.  Now 
she's  finished  it — killed  it.  I  never  want  to  see  her  again — or 
England — or  London — or  Arden — or  any  of  the  places  we've 
known  and  been  happy  in  together." 

"Don't  be  a   fool!      She'll   come  round — of  course   she   will. 


264  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Women  always  do.  Leave  her  damned  well  alone — that's  my 
advice." 

"My  dear  old  boy,  you  don't  quite  understand.  It's  not  a 
question  of  'coming  round/  "  He  laughed.  "It's  the  end — for 
me  as  well  as  for  her."  His  voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper. 
"Eric,  she  can't — she  cant  go  straight.  She's  all  right" — there 
came  a  note  of  old  passion  now — "she's  a  good  sort,  and  simple  and 
all  that  really,  and — decent  in  herself,  but — wayward,  mad.  You 
see,  it's  not  the  first  time,  this.  ...  I'm  too  slow  for  her.  We 
never  could  be  happy,  even  if  I  were  utterly  devoid  of  pride.  She 
could  never  stick  to  me.  I  feel  sure  of  that  now.  She's  got 
caught  up  in  this  rotten  Maryon  crowd — I  warned  her — I  im- 
plored. She  might — heaven  knows! — she  might  have  stuck  to  me 
if — if  I'd  been  at  home.  And — oh!  my  God,  Eric — I'm  afraid  for 
her  sometimes — I'm  terribly,  awfully  afraid  for  her!" 

Eric  made  no  reply.  A  German  aeroplane — gleaming  white  in 
the  sunshine  and  extraordinarily  beautiful  with  its  black  cross 
clearly  outlined  on  the  silvery  breast — passed  overhead  at  a  great 
height,  and  the  two  young  men — common  sight  though  it  was — 
concerned  themselves  in  the  white  smoke-puffs  of  aerial  shrapnel 
that  followed  in  its  wake.  Besides,  an  anti-aircraft  "pom-pom" 
on  a  motor-trolley  was  firing  splenetically  close  at  hand,  making 
speech  almost  inaudible. 

But  when  the  aeroplane  had  passed  and  the  noise  subsided 
somewhat,  Eric  said  abruptly: 

"You  must  get  over  this." 

"Yes?  .  .  .  And  what  about  her?" 

"She'll  come  running  back  to  you — one  of  these  days.  You 
see!" 

"Well,  it's  done  with — finished — so  far  as  I'm  concerned." 

"Oh,  yes — but  one  always  thinks  that,  you  know.  One  gets 
over  these  things  in  time— or  else  they  come  right." 

"In  time — yes.  .  .  .  But  it's  ended,  all  the  same.  And  she's 
ended.  She'll  suffer.  And — well,  I  wish  to  God  I  was  ended." 

"Cheer  up!" 

They  walked   their  horses  on  in  silence.     They  came  to  the 


UNDERWORLD  265 

Prisoners'  Cage  near  the  cross-roads  known  as  International  Cor- 
ner, where  one  or  two  down-at-heel,  grey-clad  Germans  were 
squatting  against  the  wire-netting,  smoking  clay  pipes  in  the  sun. 

The  two  officers  stopped,  glanced  at  them  from  habit,  and  rode 
on.  Adrian  said: 

"I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me." 

"What's  that?" 

"Stand  by  her,  whatever  happens — do  what  you  can  for  her." 

"Of  course.  You'd  do  the  same  for  old  Faith  if  I  got  knocked 
out  or  anything." 

"I  would." 

They  came  out  on  the  main  Ypres-Poperinghe  highway,  and  the 
stream  of  men  and  traffic  setting  towards  the  battlefield  with  the 
approach  of  dusk,  precluded  further  conversation.  Nor  till  many 
months  had  passed  was  the  subject  mentioned  between  them  again. 

§3 

Adrian  had  found,  in  addition  to  Rosemary's  letter,  one  frorn 
Lady  Knoyle  awaiting  him. 

He  had  written  to  her,  stating  simply  that  Rosemary  and  he 
had  had  a  disagreement  and  that  the  wedding  would  not  take  place. 
He  had  added,  without  explanation,  that,  while  disappointed  at 
not  seeing  his  mother,  he  felt  disinclined  to  return  to  England  at 
present,  and  had  taken  the  opportunity  offered  to  go  to  the  Riviera. 
His  mother's  intuition  would  supply  the  rest. 

There  was  no  doubt  Lady  Knoyle  did  understand.  She  ex- 
pressed an  almost  formal  regret  at  the  abandonment  of  the  arrange- 
ments and  at  his  decision  not  to  spend  his  leave  at  home,  merely 
adding,  in  regard  to  the  latter,  that  he  was  his  own  best  judge. 
The  burden  of  her  letter  was  contained  in  its  closing  paragraph: 

"I  feel  for  you,  my  dear  one,  every  hour  and  every  minute, 
every  night  and  every  day.  Only  remember  that  it  is  not  all 
blind  and  negative,  purposeless  and  without  end,  but  that  there  is 
a  purpose  and  there  will  be  an  end.  Some  day  we  shall  know — 


266  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

here  or  perhaps  hereafter — and  in  that  revelation  we  shall  attain 
all  that  is  lasting  and  true." 

As  time  went  on  the  young  man  discovered  that,  in  addition  to 
Eric  and  his  mother,  there  was  a  third  abiding  factor  in  his  life. 
This  was  Faith.  Faith  wrote  to  him  about  some  trifle.  He 
replied,  and  she  continued  to  write — at  first  about  once  a  fort- 
night, latterly  more  often — affectionate  and  amiable  letters,  con- 
taining such  news  as  was  likely  to  interest  him.  The  solid  char- 
acter of  the  woman  seemed  to  breathe  through  these  letters  as 
character  curiously  does  breathe  through  the  written  word.  He 
was  grateful  for  them. 

And  it  was  strange — or  perhaps  would  not  have  appeared  so  to 
one  familiar  (but  who  except  Lady  Knoyle  was  familiar?)  with 
this  divisible  personality — how  his  inborn  love  of  his  own  country- 
side came  back  to  him  at  this  time.  In  the  trenches,  on  the  march, 
out  riding,  awake  at  night,  on  parade,  at  the  most  unexpected 
moments,  an  almost  painful  longing  for  the  Three  Hills — their 
shapeliness  and  wide  distances,  their  solitude,  freedom,  and  in- 
definite calm — returned  repeatedly  like  the  quiet  motif  in  a  dis- 
tracting symphony. 

For  the  rest,  the  old  Adrian  was  dead.  He  lived  no  more. 
He  existed,  moved,  ate,  slept,  and  talked,  but  without  realisation 
of  immediacy  or  of  propinquity.  It  was  as  if  the  soul  of  him  had 
withered.  Deep  down  in  his  heart  he  owed  allegiance  to  that 
new,  more  constant  lover  who  had  appeared  to  him  silently  in  the 
hour  of  life's  perishing. 

§4 

Such  was  his  condition  at  this  time.  He  guarded  his  thoughts. 
He  watched  over  them,  brooded  over  them  jealously  that  none 
might  know  or  guess.  And  to  outward  appearance  the  only  change, 
in  him  was  a  hitherto  unnoticed  gravity,  an  absence  of  light- 
heartedness  that  had  marked  itself  on  his  face,  never,  perhaps,  to 
leave  it  again. 


UNDERWORLD  267 

His  comrades  noted  this  change,  putting  it  down  to  the  effect 
which  prolonged  warfare  and  the  environment  of  war  are  well 
known  to  have  on  certain  temperaments,  more  especially  in  that 
lethal  region  to  which  they  were  now  come.  For  was  not  this 
Ypres  the  very  negation  of  hope,  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  under- 
world of  the  spirit,  and  of  despair?  .  .  .  April  found  them  in 
cantonments  and  tents  amid  the  young  oakwoods  which  lie  to  the 
west  of  the  ruined  city ;  May  in  the  so-called  trenches,  better-named 
ditches  which  at  that  time  lay  a  mile  or  two  to  the  east  of  it. 

And  looking  back  upon  this  period  and  upon  the  four  months 
that  succeeded  it,  survivors  were  disposed  to  agree  that  in  all  the 
Five  Years  they  were  the  most  unearthly,  the  most  sinister,  the 
nearest  akin  within  human  conception  to  the  last  and  final  state  of 
man.  Here  it  seemed  as  though  the  Almighty  had  passed  judg- 
ment upon  mankind  and  were  levying  execution  of  it  inexorably. 
It  was  always  a  crooked  and  a  twisted  and  a  torn  and  a  broken 
memory  in  after-years,  yet  starred  with  strange  intervals  of  lucid, 
unexpected  peace,  during  which  men  saw  visions  of  a  wondrous 
ultimate  purity  and  splendour — else,  must  surely  have  perished.  It 
was  ^s  though  souls  had  to  be  tested  through  denial  of  the  life 
of  the  mind,  of  the  realm  of  the  soul,  of  the  celestial  human  thing. 
Beauty  and  Death  allied.  Nature  mocked  at  suffering.  Love 
gibbered  at  Despair.  .  .  .  Men  lived,  physically  and  mentally,  in 
the  dim  contorted  regions  of  the  anti-Christ. 

But  they  saw  visions — yes.  For  if  the  eves  were  terrible,  the 
dawns  were  beautiful.  And  if  there  was  naked  horror  in  the 
bright  noonday  when  the  sun  scorched  down  upon  livid  festering 
corpses,  and  every  grinning  feature  of  the  land  was  laid  bare  and 
the  buzz  of  the  clustering  blue-bottles  mingled  with  a  nameless 
stench — there  was  sleep  sometimes,  too,  and  dreams  scented  with 
thyme  of  Paradise.  And  if  men  lived  and  died  in  the  nether- 
world, losing  sense  of  individuality  and  time,  they  came  back  every 
nine,  ten,  or  eleven  days  to  meadows  vivid  with  the  lush  green  of 
new  grass,  riotous  with  wild  flowers,  instinct  with  the  upward 
pushing  growth  of  the  spring.  And  if  existence  itself  became  a 
purgatory,  there  was  peace  still,  and  hope,  in  the  faces  of  the  dead. 


268  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

The  process  of  this  thing  was  slow,  selective,  partial,  and  sure. 
It  was  not  as  it  had  been  in  the  winter  trenches,  where  blind  chance 
might  strike  a  man  down  but  where  Providence  watched  over  the 
majority.  Here  the  scythe-bearer  claimed  his  victims  one  by  one — 
five,  ten,  a  dozen,  or  even  fifteen  together.  Men  knew  that  Time 
was  their  master.  Captain  Sinclair  watched  his  company  dwindle. 
Each  platoon-commander  saw  his  comrades — those  who  had  borne 
the  rifle,  some  of  them,  since  the  outset  of  the  campaign,  and  had 
played  their  humble  part  always  stolidly  and  always  manfully — 
join  one  by  one  the  drab  company  which,  swathed  in  waterproof 
sheets,  duly  labelled  and  numbered,  morning  by  morning  lay  in  a 
row  at  the  head  of  the  trolley-line.  Ch:e  by  one  they  went — 
ceased  to  be — were  no  more  seen :  their  laughter,  their  chatter,  the 
characteristics  of  each  that  distinguished  him  from  the  other — 
stilled  and  vanished  for  ever.  It  was  a  strange  experience.  But 
those  who  remained  gave  little  outward  sign.  "Bill's  gone,"  they 
would  say;  "Old  Ginger's  copped  it  at  last."  And  would  then 
go  on  with  their  work  again. 

§  5 

If  Captain  Sinclair  felt  these  things,  he,  too,  gave  no  sign.  He 
was  there — always  there — never  absent  from  the  trenches  for  a 
day  or  a  night  as  his  subalterns  were  by  turns: — "little  Percy," 
the  rank  and  file  called  him  among  themselves,  and  sometimes 
"Strawberries-and-cream."  "Little  Percy,"  no  doubt,  in  respect  of 
his  neatness,  his  fastidiousness,  his  parade-ground  precision,  his 
detached  air  of  boredom  which  seemed  to  increase  as  the  days  went 
by;  "Strawberries-and-Cream,"  in  reference  to  his  complexion. 
Captain  Sinclair,  it  seemed,  carried  fortune  on  his  shoulders;  at 
any  rate,  he  risked  his  life  so  needlessly  that  the  soldiers  asked  one 
another — and  even  made  bets  on  the  subject — how  long  would  his 
luck  stick  to  him,  and  would  it  stick  to  him  to  the  end?  They 
feared  him,  too.  He  had  a  quiet,  terrible  way.  How  he  could 
gaze  at  a  soldier  who  betrayed  fear!  With  what  a  surprised,  in- 
nocent, inquiring  glance,  as  who  should  say,  "My  dear  chap,  what 


UNDERWORLD  269 

— what's  the  matter  ?  How  funny  you  look !  Anything  I  can  do  ?" 
— or  the  glance  would  say,  "My  dear  chap,  would  you  rather — 
er — go  down  to  the  dressing-station?"  And  seeing  his  company- 
commander's  contempt,  that  soldier  would  pull  himself  together. 

It  is  probable  that  deep  down  in  his  heart  (to  which  even  his 
closest  friend  never  quite  penetrated)  he  felt  a  respect  not  less 
profound  than  the  more  emotional  among  his  brother-officers  for 
these  rough  and  faithful  ones  who,  grumble  as  they  might  (and 
perpetually  did),  never  failed;  who,  out  of  the  staunchness  of  their 
hearts,  supported  him  through  these  perils;  who  by  the  sweat  of 
their  brow  and  outpouring  of  their  blood  made  the  Ypres  Salient 
possible  in  those  days. 

Alone  among  the  officers  of  the  battalion,  Eric  Sinclair  remained 
unchanged  by  the  ordeal  of  these  four  months.  If  anything  he 
became  a  little  more  quizzical,  a  little  more  exact  and  a  little  more 
exacting.  (It  was  remarked,  not  without  amusement,  that  to  him 
from  St.  James's  Street  came  a  special  coarse  linen  cover  of  fanciful 
material  for  the  steel  helmet,  and  a  special  badge  worked  in  the 
front  thereof.)  At  the  same  time,  new  and  to  Adrian  unexpected 
traits  revealed  themselves  in  his  friend — not  always  likeable  traits. 
One  was  a  pitiless  strain  in  the  man.  It  expressed  itself  on  a  cer- 
tain night  when  two  prisoners  were  brought  in  from  a  German 
patrol  captured  in  No  Man's  Land.  Eric  and  Adrian  met  them 
being  prodded  along  a  lonely  section  of  trench  by  the  bayonets  of 
a  sergeant  and  three  soldiers,  accompanied  by  kicks  and  curses. 
Eric  laughed;  Adrian  felt  an  unashamed  compassion  for  the  two 
Germans,  fine-looking  men  who  behaved  with  some  dignity  under 
the  circumstances  and  were,  he  reflected,  as  much  the  victims  of  the 
holocaust  of  war  as  himself  or  their  captors.  When  the  platoon- 
sergeant  inquired  what  he  should  do  with  his  prisoners,  Eric  said: 

"They're  a  couple  of  the  swine  who  fire  the  minenwerfer,  I 
suppose.  Do  what  you  like  with  'em!" 

"Oh,  send  'em  down  to  Brigade  Headquarters,  Eric —  "  pro- 
tested Adrian. 

"Come  along!"  said  his  company-commander,  cutting  him  short. 
"They're  no  use  to  us." 


270  WAY  OF  REV ELATION 

The  platoon-sergeant  laughed. 

Passing  back  that  way  half-an-hour  later,  they  found  the  Ger- 
mans lying  dead  in  the  trench.  .  .  . 

As  to  the  rest,  all  in  turn  and  in  varying  manner  and  degree 
fell  beneath  the  spell  of  the  ghoulish  nightmare  of  the  place  and 
of  the  time.  Walker  went  first — Walker  the  "thruster,"  the 
blood-thirsty,  the  enterprising,  the  devil-may-care.  But  Walker 
went.  In  fact,  he  made  a  deliberate  confession  to  Adrian  one 
Sunday  evening  as  they  strolled  together  in  the  fields  behind 
Brielen. 

"Adrian,"  he  said,  "I've  got  'em.  I  don't  know  how  I  shall  stick 
it.  I  don't  believe  I  can  face  another  show  like  Wednesday  night. 
It's  a  hell  on  earth.  It's  too — filthy.  .  .  .  But  don't  tell  Eric." 

By  "got  'em"  he  meant  that  "the  shakes"  (as  the  men  called  it) 
were  upon  him.  His  mention  of  "Wednesday  night"  referred  to 
the  striking  dead  by  minenwerfer  of  four  of  his  platoon.  Hearing 
for  the  first  time  the  explosion  of  one  of  these  great  bombs,  he  had 
run  up  and  found  the  four  close  together  in  the  trench  frozen 
with  shock — two  crouching,  one  standing  with  his  head  bowed 
upon  the  parapet,  a  fourth  scattered  in  pieces  around.  He  ha3 
been  sick. 

Adrian  replied:  "We've  all  got  'em,  old  boy — more  or  less. 
I've  got  'em  too;  I  see  things — but  I  don't  worry.  I  suppose  it's 
all  for  our  sins  ...  or  other  people's."  And  he  laughed. 

It  was  a  mirthless  laugh,  but  he  had  grown  callous  of  late  to 
other  people's  suffering. 

Stick  it  Lieutenant  Walker  had  to,  though  he  trembled  all  over, 
jumped  to  this  side  and  that,  and  went  white  to  the  lips  when  shells 
came  plunging  into  the  ditches  that  lay  so  immediately  beneath 
the  enemy's  eye.  Cornwallis,  on  the  other  hand,  though  gaining 
by  dint  of  immense  effort  more  visible  control  over  himself,  had 
nightmares  in  the  back  areas.  He  now  rarely  spoke.  Others 
became  jerky  and  took  to  drinking  rather  large  quantities  of  neat 
whisky.  This  was  particularly  the  case  with  Darell,  who  had 
always  been  somewhat  prone  to  the  "bottle"  and  who  now  con- 
trived to  maintain  an  unnatural  cheerfulness.  Vivian,  on  the  other 


UNDERWORLD  271 

hand,  showed  a  nervous  irritability  which  at  times  led  to  smart 
exchanges  in  the  mess — without,  however,  lasting  ill-feeling. 
Alston,  the  ex-lawyer,  for  all  his  assumed  toughness,  began  to  wear 
a  perpetually  grim  and  worried,  an  almost  haunted  look;  Durrant 
buried  himself  more  and  more  in  particularity  of  detail  and  pe- 
dantic theory.  Even  Colonel  Steele  was  a  different  man  on  his 
nightly  tours  round  the  trenches  from  what  he  had  been  back  at 
battalion  headquarters — he  spoke  almost  meekly,  and  his  voice  had 
acquired  a  stutter  as  though  he  held  himself  under  perpetual  con- 
straint. As  for  his  elegant  adjutant,  Langley,  this  young  gentle- 
man remained  firmly  at  the  telephone,  rarely  put  his  nose  outside 
the  deepest  dug-out  available,  and  then  only  to  bawl  for  a  whisky- 
and-soda.  Major  Brough,  the  second-in-command,  a  portly  per- 
sonage, was  subject  to  recurring  attacks  of  trench-fever  which  kept 
him  rather  frequently  out  of  the  line. 

Adrian  was  less  susceptible  than  the  rest  to  the  purely  physical 
influences  around  him,  since  he  lived  habitually  within  his  own 
mind,  and  that  which  happened  passed  by  and  away  from  him. 
Being  intensely  conscious  of  himself,  he  was  seldom  taken  un- 
awares, and  only  once  did  he  give  way  to  the  furnace  of  suppressed 
feeling  that  at  times  burned  within  him.  This  was  during  a  brief 
period  in  reserve  when,  unable  longer  to  bear  the  relentless  burden 
which  always  lay  near  to  his  heart,  and  feeling  that  by  his  low 
spirits  he  was  a  heavy  drag  even  upon  the  rather  forced  merriment 
of  the  rest  of  the  company,  he  drank  too  much,  became  intoxicated, 
and  had  to  be  helped  to  his  tent  by  his  company-commander.  He 
awoke  to  hear  the  whir-r-r  of  aeroplanes  overhead  and  the 
detonation  of  German  bombs  falling  around,  whilst  from  far  and 
near  came  the  wailing  melancholy  sound  of  gas-alarms  in  a  score 
of  different  keys.  On  the  morrow  he  was  mercilessly  chaffed  by 
his  brother-officers,  and  received  the  only  official  rebuke  from  Eric 
that  the  latter  thought  necessary  to  inflict  during  their  long  com- 
radeship. 

"Getting  drunk  out  here,"  the  company-commander  remarked, 
"is  like  a  joke  that  goes  too  far.  It  ceases  to  be  amusing  and  be- 
comes rather  a  bore." 


272  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

The  incident  was  not  mentioned  again. 

The  two  friends  were  indeed  more  than  ever  inseparable.  Eric 
did  not  sympathise  vocally;  he  did  so  by  way  of  a  score  of  unob- 
trusive actions;  saw  to  it  that  Adrian  was  left  alone  as  little  as 
might  be,  since  he  feared  the  effect  of  a  brooding  solitude  upon 
him,  and  was  always  ready  even  at  the  busiest  times  to  take  a  walk 
or  ride.  He  privily  communicated  the  state  of  affairs  to  Faith  to 
do  as  she  might  think  best  in  regard  to  Rosemary.  Eric's  wisdom 
was  self-contained  but  practical. 

Two  events  alone  stood  out  in  Adrian's  recollection  from  the 
monochrome  of  that  time.  These,  however,  made  a  lasting  im- 
pression where  all  else  was  hazy  and  dark,  because  they  nearly 
affected  that  purpose  which  had  now  become  a  fixture  in  his  mind. 
They  revealed  to  him,  as  nothing  else  had,  the  irony  of  a  Fate  against 
which  man  seemed  too  puny  to  struggle. 

The  first  of  these  events  occurred  a  couple  of  nights  after 
Walker's  unsought  confession  that  he  had  "got  'em."  It  was  also 
the  occasion  of  Walker's  death. 

That  had  been  a  curious  confidence,  Adrian  thought — a  curious 
self-abasement — to  come  from  such  a  man,  one  so  normally  self- 
confident,  so  essentially  physical,  so  purely  "animal." 

He  had  made  that  confidence,  no  doubt,  perceiving  his  brother- 
officer's  sombre  state  and  imagining  the  cause  of  it  to  be  similar  to 
his  own.  It  was  as  if  he  had  had  a  foreboding,  too. 


CHAPTER  VII 
Love  and  Death 


IT  was  an  evening  late  in  June,  quiet  and  peaceful,  after  the  heat 
of  the  day,  the  eternal  sniping,  and  the  periodical  violent  bursts  of 
shelling.  It  was  that  hour  when  the  slow  dusk  not  being  suf- 
ficiently advanced  for  work  to  begin,  the  combatants  seemed  tacitly 
to  agree  to  take  their  ease. 

Captain  Sinclair  had  established  the  custom  of  gathering  around 
him  at  sunset  his  platoon-commanders  and  sergeants  and  of  dis- 
cussing with  them  the  forthcoming  night's  work.  At  a  point  close 
to  the  company  headquarters  where  a  real  bit  of  trench  broadened 
out  somewhat,  forming  a  natural  little  ampitheatre,  they  were  now 
gathered  together.  In  the  centre  of  this  enclosed  space,  on  a  petrol- 
can,  sat  Eric,  notebook  and  pencil  on  knee.  Adrian,  Walker  and 
Cornwallis,  also  armed  with  notebooks  and  pencils,  were  seated 
on  the  fire-step,  while  the  platoon-sergeants  —  four  large,  fierce- 
looking  men  whose  patched  and  stained  uniforms  showed  the 
nature  of  the  life  they  had  been  leading  —  stood  in  attentive  atti- 
tudes around.  Gently,  very  gently,  the  evening  breeze  stirred  the 
long  grasses,  yellow  vetches,  trefoil  and  red  poppy  that  fringed  the 
lip  of  the  trench.  A  golden  haze  lay  upon  the  battlefield,  kindling 
its  hideousness  almost  to  beauty;  a  couple  of  miles  away  the  white 
husk  of  a  high  building  amid  a  mass  of  greenery  showed  where 
the  city  of  Ypres  slept  its  sleep  of  death. 

Captain  Sinclair's  voice  speaking  in  quiet  precise  accents  very 
different  from  the  drawl  he  habitually  used,  was  the  only  sound 
heard. 

273 


274  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

"As  soon  as  it's  dark,"  he  was  saying,  "I  want  you  to  lead  out 
by  platoons  to  the  point  we  chose  last  night — you  all  know  that? 
String  your  men  out  as  quietly  as  possible  at  four  paces  interval- 
No.  13  platoon  on  the  left,  then  No.  14,  No.  15  platoon  on  the 
right — and  get  to  work  quickly.  Adrian,  you'll  be  in  charge  of 
that  lot.  George" — he  turned  to  Walker,  "I  want  you  with  No. 
1 6  platoon  to  dig  a  communication  trench  back  from  the  centre — 
choose  your  own  point  of  starting.  Arthur,  you'll  be  with  Adrian. 
Remember  you'll  be  only  about  seventy  yards  from  the  Germans, 
so  go  quietly  and  don't  chatter.  I  shall  walk  round  later  with 
the  Colonel.  ...  Is  that  clear?  Does  everybody  know  what  he's 
got  to  do?  If  not,  ask." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  "Yes,  sir !"  followed  by  a  pause  that  was 
punctured  only  by  the  "crack"  of  a  sniper's  rifle.  A  great  bird, 
dark  and  sinister,  flapped  slowly  and  heavily  over  the  trench  on 
its  way  to  some  lair  in  the  wastes  of  grass.  The  night  crept  up 
quickly. 

A  sergeant,  a  shaggy  grey-haired  old  reservist,  spoke: 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir — what  if  they  open  fire  on  us?" 

"Lie  down  in  the  trench — and  wait.  Or  if  you  haven't  dug 
your  trench — lie  down." 

"Hadn't  we  better  put  some  wire  out?"  inquired  Walker. 

"No — no  wire.  Covering  parties.  Each  platoon  will  find  its 
own  covering  party.  A  corporal  and  two  men." 

"How  far  out?"  asked  Cornwallis. 

"Use  your  own  judgment,  my  dear  chap.  Twenty  or  thirty 
yards.  You  know  what  a  covering  party's  for?" 

"Yes." 

"How  deep's  the  trench  got  to  be,  please,  sir?"  A  smart,  fair- 
haired  young  sergeant  spoke. 

"Oh,  four  feet — about.    Until  you  touch  water." 

Silence  fell  again  while  the  velvety  evening  tip-toed  round. 

"I'm  sorry  you've  got  to  do  this,"  Eric  went  on  composedly. 
"It  seems  to  me  a  fairly  objectless  proceeding  on  the  whole  and  a 
distinctly  dangerous  one.  However,  that's  beside  the  point.  It's 
got  to  be  done.  As  you  know,  there's  a  battle  beginning  down 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  275 

south  any  day.  The  idea  of  digging  these  storming  trenches  is  to 
bluff  the  Germans  into  thinking " 

Even  as  he  spoke,  and  as  though  in  answer  to  his  words,  there 
crashed  out  a  short  distance  to  the  right  on  ground  lower  than 
that  which  they  occupied  a  hurricane-fire  of  artillery,  machine- 
guns,  and  rifles.  It  was  like  the  first  resounding  chord  of  an 
orchestra  at  the  signal  of  the  conductor's  baton.  Everybody  except 
Eric  jumped  up  and  looked  over  the  parapet.  Eric  began  writing. 
Battle  had  leapt  to  life  like  a  storm  at  sea.  Lights  went  up,  red, 
white,  yellow  and  green,  golden-shower  rockets  burst  against  the 
purpling  sky,  and  the  indigo  blue  of  oncoming  night  was  streaked 
with  gun  flashes. 

Walker  muttered  "Blast !"  between  his  teeth.  Cornwallis  tried 
not  to  look  uneasy.  The  red-faced  ginger-haired  sergeant-major 
remarked  to  another  sergeant,  "What's  this  bloody  turn-up?" 

Eric  said :  "It's  a  raid,"  and  went  on  writing. 

It  was  the  overture  in  the  form  of  a  demonstration — they  were 
afterwards  to  learn — to  the  battle  of  the  Somme. 

Meanwhile  the  flash  and  thunder  of  the  artillery,  the  unbroken 
roar  of  machine-guns  and  musketry,  the  countless  red  and  white 
S.O.S.  signals  sent  up  by  the  German  infantry  in  their  dire  need, 
formed  a  picture  set  in  the  gilded  frame  of  the  summer's  evening 
as  terrible,  as  beautiful,  as  unearthly  as  any  among  those  present 
had  seen. 

To  Adrian's  mood  it  attuned  itself  completely.  It  filled  him, 
indeed,  with  a  sort  of  demoniacal  joy,  reviving  in  some  way  the 
memory  of  the  night  of  the  Zeppelin  raid  with  Rosemary.  It  was 
the  embodiment  of  his  permanently  haunting  conception  of  the 
mysterious  duality  between  Love  and  Death. 

§   2 

The  storm  abated  as  quickly  as  It  had  arisen,  but  thereafter 
the  night  was  never  still.  As  soon  as  the  working-party  could 
be  marshalled  in  the  crowded  trench — no  easy  matter — they 
started  off,  Adrian  and  Walker  leading,  Cornwallis  in  rear. 


276  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Slowly,  with  many  exclamations,  pauses,  and  much  hard  swearing, 
together  with  fierce  injunctions  to  silence  from  the  non-commis- 
sioned officers,  they  moved  in  single  file  along  a  sap.  One  by  one 
they  climbed  out  of  this  into  the  open.  A  little  winding  path,  worn 
by  the  feet  of  patrols  and  working  parties,  led  along  a  ridge 
between  enormous  shell-holes  in  which  water  glistened.  The  men 
became  nervous  and  silent,  realising  that  they  were  beyond  cover, 
far  out  in  No  Man's  Land,  and  less  than  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  German  line,  the  exact  whereabouts  of  which  no  one  knew. 
Walker's  face  began  to  twitch  like  a  madman's.  Now  and  then 
somebody  tripped  over  a  loose  strand  of  barbed  wire  or  stumbled 
into  a  shell-hole  and  there  was  a  scramble,  followed  by  a  suppressed 
curse. 

Once  at  their  objective,  they  lined  out  quickly,  the  covering  par- 
ties creeping  forward  twenty  yards  or  so  into  the  long,  dew-soaked 
grass.  Each  man  worked  hard  to  throw  up  the  few  feet  of  earth  in 
front  of  him  which  should  afford  at  any  rate  an  illusory  sense  of 
protection.  A  peculiar  stench  clung  to  the  ground,  thicker  and 
more  foetid  in  some  places  than  in  others,  and  as  they  dug  becom- 
ing stronger.  Mis-shapen,  horrible  things  were  dug  up  or  pierced 
with  spades.  Drab  and  muddy,  yielding  and  soft  so  that  it  was 
hardly  to  be  recognised  as  a  human  thing — the  body  of  a  German. 
No  head,  only  the  trunk.  "There's  a  nice  bit  o'  beef  for  you," 
somebody  chuckled.  "Get  out,  Fritz!"  and  he  kicked  the  unsightly 
object  into  a  shell-hole,  having  previously  cut  off  two  buttons  as 
a  memento.  Somebody  else  found  a  rifle  completely  rusted  and 
caked  with  mud.  Then  a  machine-gun  was  dug  up,  rusted  and 
mud-caked,  too,  having  evidently  at  some  time  been  buried  by  a 
shell.  Originally  English,  it  had  been  converted  by  the  Germans, 
and  now  perhaps  might  be  re-converted. 

Early  in  the  night,  Colonel  Steele  came  round,  accompanied  by 
Eric  Sinclair  and  an  orderly.  He  glanced  quickly  at  the  work; 
he  spoke  in  whispers,  his  manner  was  constrained  and  jerky.  He 
even  said  an  affable  word  to  Cornwallis,  who  was  himself  digging 
furiously. 

Eric  explained  the  situation,  also  in  whispers. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  277 

The  Colonel  desired  his  company-commander  to  attend  him 
along  the  whole  battalion  frontage.  He  held  the  highest  opinion 
of  that  self-possessed  young  man's  judgment.  When  they  had" 
passed  on,  the  men  paused  in  their  digging,  wiped  the  sweat  from 
their  brows,  and  chuckled. 

"Old  Jack-knife's  rattled  a  bit,  ain't  he?  Little  Percy's  got  'im 
on  a  leading-string.  Why  didn't  somebody  stick  a  bay'net  in  the 
old !" 

It  was  on  these  occasions  that  they  remembered  extra  fatigues  in 
the  back  areas  and  names  taken  on  battalion  parades,  or  at  the  end 
of  long  marches. 

Once — about  midnight — a  German  machine-gun  opened  sud- 
denly and  a  man  resting  on  his  spade,  as  he  contemplated  the  result 
of  his  labours,  swore  loudly  and  sat  down. 

"Oo — oo — oo !  It  don't  'arf  'urt.  Got  me  in  the  ankle,  the 
!  Oo — oo !  .  .  .  Get  me  boot  off!  Fetch  a  stretcher- 
bearer  !  Away  with  it,  boys !  This  one's  a  'blighty.'  " 

Everybody  congratulated  him. 

§3 

That  slight  commotion  over,  Adrian  stood  above  the  half-dug 
trench  watching  the  line  of  indistinct  figures  toiling  and  moiling 
below  him.  The  night,  like  his  own  mind,  was  filled  with  an 
uneasy  silence.  His  mind,  indeed,  was  full  of  questionings,  of 
secret  promptings  and  unanswered  queries.  Premonition  stood  at 
his  right  hand.  It  was  as  though  She  watched  him  as  the  stars 
did.  .  .  .  Was  She  waiting  upon  him,  approaching  him?  Out  of 
the  gloom  was  She  peeping  at  him  now — pining  for  him — ogling  him 
with  Her  baffling  iris  eyes — waiting,  as  he  was,  for  the  moment 
when  he  might  be  taken  to  Herself?  Profundity,  immensity, 
eternity!  Easy,  quiet,  sudden!  Yes,  he  was  ready  for  Her 
too.  .  .  . 

Throughout  the  interminable  sun-scorched  day  this  had  been 
his  mood.  All  through  the  day  it  had  been  in  his  mind  to  hasten 
the  end,  to  seal  the  compact,  to  consummate  the  strongest  impulse 


278  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

he  had  ever  known.  At  times  as  he  lay  thinking,  thinking,  rarely 
sleeping  in  his  little  sandbag  den — yet  striving  not  to  think — at 
times  the  temptation  had  seemed  almost  irresistible.  Only  to  go 
outside,  to  look  over  the  parapet,  to  walk  once  or  twice  across  that 
gap.  Should  he  tempt  Her — tantalize  Her — should  he  not  woo 
Her  more  strongly,  more  ardently?  Seize  Her!  Capture  Her! 
.  .  .  Wait — wait !  Wouldn't  She  come  safely,  surely,  in  Her  own 
good  time? 

Plunged  in  these  morbid  reflections,  he  had  not  noticed  that  a 
burly  figure  stood  beside  him.  Nor  at  first  did  he  recognise  the 
voice  that  now  spoke  in  a  husky  whisper. 

"Adrian  ...  is  that  you?  I  just  thought  I'd  come  along — 
for  company.  It's  a  bit  funny  to-night,  isn't  it — funny  and  quiet? 
What  was  that  flare-up  to-night?  .  .  .  Tell  me,  old  boy,  tell  me, 
d'you  think  anything's  going  to  happen  ?" 

The  speaker  was  Walker. 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  the  other  replied  indifferently. 
"Seems  quiet  enough  now.  Anything  might  happen  at  any  time, 
I  suppose." 

It  was  hardly  a  comforting  reply,  and  he  afterwards  regretted 
that  he  had  not  spoken  more  considerately.  After  all,  he  himself 
had  known  that  sort  of  fear. 

A  light  went  up,  Walker  fell  flat,  and  rose  again  with  a  sickly 
smile.  Two  or  three  bullets  whined  drearily  overhead,  and 
Walker  gave  a  funny  little  jump  forward  as  though  he  had  St. 
Vitus's  dance  in  the  lower  limbs.  Both  stood  thinking. 

Presently  came  again  Walker's  hoarse  uncanny  whisper: 

"I  say — Adrian — I  think  I  see  something — look!  what  is  it? 
don't  move,  man,  don't  move  for  the  love  of  Christ!  My  God, 
it's  a  man !  I  saw  it  move — look !  Just  by  that  tussock  of  grass — 
it's  a  man's  head — there's  another,  two,  three — get  your  revolver 
out — get  down  in  the  trench.  Why,  man  alive,  they're  all  round 
us!"  He  clutched  Adrian's  arm,  peering  forward  and  shaking  from 
head  to  foot.  "Get  down  in  the  trench!"  he  shouted,  "get  down 
in  the  trench!  They're  right  on  top  of  us.  Down!  down!" 

These  last  words  he  yelled  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  279 

"Fire!     Fire!" 

He  let  his  revolver  off — from  the  hip — and  fell  back  into  the 
trench. 

Adrian  looked  down  at  him  coldly. 

"It's  the  covering  party,  you  fool.  Get  back  to  your  communica- 
tion-trench." 

The  fellow  went — like  a  convicted  criminal.  The  Wheels  of 
War  grind  slowly,  but  they  grind  exceeding  small. 

He  had  gone  very  few  yards  when  a  low,  throbbing  hum  came 
to  their  ears.  Looking  up,  Adrian  saw  a  small  spot  of  light  fol- 
lowed by  a  little  tail  of  sparks  very  slowly  sailing  through  the  air. 
The  light  disappeared  immediately  above  his  head;  there  was  a 
sibilant  hissing  sound  increasing  with  the  volume  of  an  express 
train.  An  immense  weight  seemed  to  be  descending  upon  them  at 
incredible  speed.  A  voice  shouted  "Look  out!  Minenwerfer!" 
There  came  a  heavy  thud  close  at  hand,  followed  by  a  profound 
silence.  All  threw  themselves  flat,  including  Adrian,  who  obeyed 
some  instinct  that  was  too  strong  for  him  or  that  took  him 
unawares. 

Puff! 

The  ground  trembled,  all  the  world  went  up  around  them,  a 
red  glare  lit  up  the  features  of  those  nearest.  Another  moment's 
silence  followed — then  the  roar  of  volumes  of  earth  falling,  and 
of  toppling  stones. 

Groans  and  shouts  succeeded.  Cornwallis's  voice  could  be  heard 
crying  "Steady!  Steady!"  rather  helplessly.  One  or  two  men 
bolted  down  the  half-dug  communication-trench.  A  tall  corporal 
staggered  past,  whimpering  like  a  child  and  holding  his  arm,  which 
was  hanging  from  the  elbow  by  a  shred  of  flesh. 

Above  these  sounds  Adrian  heard  one  man's  shrieks. 

"I'm  wounded!  I'm  wounded!  I'm  choking!  I'm  dying! 
Will  nobody  come?  Oh,  God!  Oh,  my " 

It  was  Walker. 

As  he  rushed  forward  another  bomb  came,  droning  towards 
them,  to  fall  with  the  same  heavy  thud  a  few  yards  away.  A 
gentle  puff,  silence,  and  the  world  rose  up  again.  He  was  knocked 


280  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

down.    Earth  falling  —  earth  and  stones  —  in  his  mouth,  in  his  ears 
—  down  his  neck,  on  his  back  —  beating,  buffeting  him. 

When  he  looked  up  the  red  glare  disclosed  nothing  but  a  stricken 
waste. 


This  episode  of  Walker's  death,  together  with  that  of  some  half- 
dozen  others  who  perished  with  him,  disturbed  and  troubled 
Knoyle's  mind  for  weeks  afterwards.  He  revolved  the  circum- 
stances again  and  again  in  his  thoughts  —  at  night  in  the  back  areas 
and  during  the  long  hours  of  doing  nothing  in  the  trenches.  He 
could  not  comprehend  the  unreasoning,  the  apparently  senseless 
processes  of  Fate.  Why  Walker?  .  .  .  Walker,  who  dreaded, 
who  feared  death,  who  treasured  life  because  he  had  all  in  life  to 
live  for  —  and  would  have  lived  heartily,  happily.  Walker  gone, 
vanished,  disappeared  underground;  they  had  dug  for  him  until 
daybreak,  but  there  was  found  no  sign  and  no  trace.  Walker,  his 
laugh,  his  jokes,  his  women,  his  lavish  obscenity  —  had  simply 
ceased  to  be  ;  Walker  who  would  have  given  his  last  hope  of  salva- 
tion to  have  been  allowed  to  live  —  he  had  been  taken.  And  Adrian 
Knoyle,  remained. 

He  could  have  laughed  from  sheer  bitterness  of  spirit  had  he 
not  been  so  surprised,  so  —  so  shocked  at  the  malice  —  or  was  it  coy- 
ness? —  of  Death  whom  he  courted. 

He  even  felt  a  kind  of  jealousy  of  this  Walker  who,  dreading 
and  repulsing  with  last  vain  cries  of  protest,  had  been  taken  to 
Her  arms.  .  .  . 

There  were  times,  especially  towards  the  end  of  the  four  months' 
sojourn  at  Ypres,  when  unable  longer  to  bear  these  thoughts,  he 
was  driven  to  tempt,  to  appeal,  and  at  last  to  throw  himself  at 
Her  feet. 

When  these  impulses  first  came  upon  him,  conscious  of  the  need 
of  some  greater  than  human  aid,  he  tried  to  pray.  "Oh,  God  !"  he 
muttered  to  himself,  "help  me  and  save  me."  But  at  length  even 
these  words  died  on  his  lips,  which  became  parched  and  barren  as 
his  heart. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  281 

Eric  if  anything  saved  him.  Eric  came  to  his  rescue — a  stimulus, 
a  call  upon  his  loyalty.  What  great,  what  not  less  great,  burdens 
had  this  man  to  bear!  Not  alone  the  responsibility  of  the  com- 
pany's welfare  and  conduct  in  the  line  of  battle;  not  alone  the 
wearing  strain  of  the  extra  risks  he  took  or  of  the  appalling  condi- 
tions under  which  they  lived ;  not  only  his  own  private  anxieties — 
his  future  with  Faith,  of  which  indeed  Fate  might  rob  him  at  any 
hour  of  the  day  or  night;  in  addition  to  these,  he  shouldered  more 
than  a  share  of  his  comrades'  burdens.  Yet  Eric  did  not  appeal  to 
adventitious  aid,  did  not  dwell  on  his  difficulties,  did  not  give  way 
to  morbid  reflections.  He  encouraged  Cornwallis;  to  his  men  he 
showed  a  patience  and  a  forbearance  that  were  not  his  natural 
forte;  to  his  friend,  a  more  than  merciful  consideration.  To  that 
friend,  indeed,  he  was  at  once  an  abiding  example  and  a  putting  to 
shame. 

But  Adrian  failed. 

§  4 

The  second  of  the  episodes  that  produced  so  strong  a  reaction 
upon  him  happened  on  an  evening  some  four  weeks  after  Walker's 
death.  It  was  one  of  numerous  wearisome  evenings  spent  during 
the  period  of  reserve  in  the  galleries  and  "dug-outs"  which  honey- 
combed the  ramparts  of  Ypres  between  the  Lille  and  Menin  Gates. 
Here  the  atmosphere  was  stifling;  the  heat  of  July  lay  heavy  upon 
the  land,  and  within  these  chambers  air  could  neither  enter  nor 
escape. 

On  the  night  in  question,  the  square  boarded  apartment  In  which 
Eric,  Adrian,  and  Cornwallis  sat  was  a  blaze  of  electric  light.  The 
remains  of  a  late  supper  lay  upon  the  table;  in  different  corners 
were  three  wire  beds  and  three  sets  of  pyjamas;  a  book  lay  upon 
the  table,  left  open  at  the  page  half-read,  as  though  mutely  protest- 
ing that  the  reader  was  too  weary  to  finish  it.  A  heap  of  gramo- 
phone records  lay  piled  untidily  beside  a  gramophone  as  though  the 
owner  had  grown  tired  of  playing  that,  too.  The  atmosphere  was 
thick  with  tobacco-smoke. 


282  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"You'd  better  not  come,"  Eric  was  saying.  "Unless,  of  course, 
you  want  to  get  killed." 

He  referred  to  a  reconnaissance  he  had  received  orders  to  make 
that  night  of  a  line  of  trenches  shortly  to  be  taken  over  from  a 
Canadian  Division. 

"Can't  you  see  I  want  to  go?"  Adrian  replied  irritably.  His 
face  was  pale  and  weary.  Dark  lines  hollowing  under  his  eyes 
emphasised  the  look  of  extreme  unhappiness  which  was  now 
habitual  to  it.  For  an  hour  or  more  he  had  been  sitting,  thinking 
— brooding  and  thinking  while  Eric  wrote  and  Cornwallis  read. 

"I  hate  taking  over  a  line  and  knowing  nothing  about  it.  Be- 
sides, the  message  says  'Company-commanders  will  take  up  a 
second-in-command  or  subaltern  at  their  discretion,'  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes — well,  personally,  I  consider  it  would  be  the  height  of 
^discretion  for  you  to  go  However,  if  you're  so  desperately 
anxious  to  commit  suicide " 

"I  want  to  go,  and  there's  an  end  of  it,"  the  second-in-command 
interrupted.  "I'm  bored  stiff  with  this — it's  like  a  rabbit-hutch 
converted  into  a  saloon-bar." 

"Well — have  it  your  own  way,  you  maniac.  One  must  humour 
'em,  I  suppose."  Eric  winked  at  Cornwallis.  "So  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned you  can  take  on  the  whole  job  with  the  greatest  of  pleasure. 
Why  don't  you  come  too,  Arthur,  so  as  to  make  sure  of  a  complete 
debacle?' 

"Oh,  no!  thanks,"  the  latter  replied  promptly. 

And  so  the  two  started. 

No  beam  of  light  from  the  illuminated  dug-out  strayed  into  the 
roadway,  for  it  was  only  by  devious  passages  that  access  could  be 
obtained  to  these  mysterious  internal  chambers,  centuries  old.  Out- 
side, the  mist  crept  in,  crept  up,  and  round  about.  Like  a  ghost, 
like  a  wraith,  it  stole  along  the  dim  streets  whose  secrets  were 
buried  beneath  tons  of  bricks  and  masonry,  beneath  heaps  and  heaps 
of  ruins.  At  first  nothing  could  be  seen  in  the  filmy  darkness  after 
the  brilliance  of  the  dug-out;  instinct  alone  guided  their  footsteps. 
In  the  dug-out  all  sound  had  been  deadened;  they  could  hear 
nothing  from  without.  But  now  they  found  that  guns  were  firing 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  283 

in  the  city  itself — fitfully,  yet  frequently.  Their  banging  and 
booming  awoke  a  thousand  echoes.  Every  time  a  gun  fired,  the 
flash  lit  up  jagged  ruins,  a  naked  wall,  or  the  skeleton  roofs  of 
houses.  It  was  evidently  the  beginning  of  a  slow  bombardment. 

Across  a  desert  open  space  they  picked  their  way,  then  stumbled 
over  blocks  of  fallen  masonry  and  balks  of  timber  in  the  lee  of  a 
walled  garden.  It  seemed  to  Adrian  that  tom-cats  ought  to  be 
yowling  and  spitting  on 'the  top  of  such  a  wall;  but  there  was  no 
such  civilised  symptom.  Silence,  moist  and  mysterious,  settled 
down  between  the  reports  of  the  guns.  At  the  Lille  Gate  a  wake- 
ful sentry  and  a  watchful  sergeant  said  "Good  night!"  In  the 
recesses  of  a  kind  of  cave  which  did  duty  as  a  gate-house  they 
could  just  distinguish  the  prostrate  forms  of  the  guard,  and  could 
hear  snores.  The  sentry  opened  a  door  and  the  two  officers  found 
themselves  outside  the  ramparts,  plonk-plonking  across  a  plank 
bridge.  There  was  water  underneath — they  could  feel  rather  than 
see  it — water  that  lay  black  and  stagnant,  and  seemed  to  listen. 

They  spoke  little.  Every  now  and  then  Eric  stopped  and  con- 
sulted his  compass.  Out  in  the  grass  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the 
trenches  familiar  sounds  came  to  their  ears.  Machine-guns  were 
chattering.  It  was  like  a  domestic  argument.  No  sooner  did  an 
enemy  gun  start  a  steady  burst  of  conversation  than  a  couple  of 
Lewis  automatics  responded  with  a  whirlwind  of  vituperation. 
Further  away  another  German  joined  in  angrily  while  a  sniper's 
rifle  interjected  sharp  occasional  comments.  Yes — the  night  was 
full  of  sounds.  Strangely,  and  for  a  moment,  Very  lights  rose 
above  the  mists,  silently  to  vanish.  To-night  the  far-stretching 
panorama  of  the  Salient,  usually  outlined  by  star-shells,  was  hid- 
den. Only  southward  the  cannon  rolled  in  a  dim  unceasing  chorus, 
and  near  at  hand  the  field-batteries  in  Ypres  fired  at  irregular  inter- 
vals, the  shells,  whistling  overhead  to  burst  with  a  quick  glare  and 
crash  along  the  German  front  line.  Bombs  at  times  exploded  too. 
Deep,  sullen  detonations,  three  or  four  together,  shook  earth  and 
darkness. 

For  Adrian  such  nights  were  never  without  their  ghosts.  Ghosts 
crept  out  with  the  mists  which  wreathed  and  sidled  now  dense,  now 


284  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

lifting  thinly;  ghosts  and  the  hideous  unknown  things  which  lurk 
on  battlefields.  A  sinking  moon  strove  feebly  with  the  mist,  some- 
times momentarily  penetrating  it;  then  all  the  world  became  sil- 
very, opaque.  Away  to  the  left,  etched  in  a  delicate  gloom,  could 
be  seen  the  outlines  of  what  had  once  been  a  convent.  At  times, 
they  could  discern  no  more  than  a  yard  or  two  of  the  ground 
ahead,  which  was  pock-marked  with  shell-holes  and  often  caused 
them  to  stumble  and  lurch  forward  into  the  long,  rank  vegetation, 
the  thistles  and  nettles.  Sometimes  they  would  cross  a  narrow, 
weed-grown  path  that  once  had  been  a  main  road;  sometimes  they 
had  to  leap  an  old  gun-pit  or  disused  grass-fringed  communication- 
trench;  sometimes  a  landmark  was  missed;  and  sometimes,  when 
the  fog  grew  dense,  they  seemed  to  come  to  a  dead  end.  Then 
Eric  would  pause  and  take  his  bearings,  partly  by  the  star-lights, 
partly  by  the  bursting  shells  on  the  German  front  line.  Those 
were  queer  furtive  moments  when  the  silence  grew  tense,  when,  in 
the  utter  absence  of  any  sign  of  human  life,  the  seething  white  mists 
seemed  to  take  on  strange  shapes — or  one  shape;  when  out  of  this 
silence  came  the  cries  of  some  unknown  bird — cries  that  seemed  to 
Adrian  weird  and  unearthly.  And  they  hurried  on.  ...  There 
were  moments  when  a  formless,  nameless  presence  seemed  to  follow 
always,  and  eyes  once  familiar  watched  from  the  great  socket-like 
holes  on  either  hand,  and  out  of  the  gloom  wraith-like  features 
beckoned  gravely.  The  very  earth  itself,  maimed  and  scarred, 
spoke  of  war's  eternal  mystery,  of  God's  anger  and  tribulation,  of 
man's  agony  and  bloody  sweat.  A  mile  behind,  the  broken  city 
slept  as  one  sleeps  who  can  suffer  no  more. 

Clambering  over  a  sandbag  breastwork,  they  entered  a  trench 
which  was  new  and  clean  and  handsomely  floored  with  duck- 
boards.  Voices  could  be  heard  at  some  distance  along  it.  A  snatch 
of  a  song  came  to  their  ears  in  a  nasal  tenor: 

"C'est  la  valse  brune 
Des  chevaliers  de  la  lime, 
Que  la  lumiere  importune, 
Et  qui  recherchent  un  coin  noir." 

Adrian  stopped  and  listened  intently.    A  queer  smile  crept  into 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  285 

his  face,  and  remained  there  till  the  last  wistful  cadences  had  died 
away;  then  he  hurried  after  his  friend. 

Parties  of  Quebec  Canadians  were  sand-bagging  traverses  and 
parapets.  Eric  spent  some  time  in  examining  these.  He  then  sug- 
gested that  they  should  explore  the  wire  and  the  ground  out  in 
front. 

The  mist  had  fallen  again,  but  no  sooner  were  they  out  in  a 
waste  oi?  shell-holes,  half-filled  with  water  and  loose  strands  of 
barbed  wire  than  it  lifted  like  a  curtain  and  the  moon  shone  out 
as  clear  as  day.  They  found  themselves  alone  with  desolation, 
alone  in  a  world  where  was  neither  human  sight  nor  sound  nor  any 
landmark,  save  the  greyish-white  stumps  of  shell-split  trees.  The 
trenches  they  had  just  left  could  not  be  distinguished  from  the 
rest  of  the  dim  background.  They  looked  across  a  vast  silvery 
desert  that  might  have  been  a  weirdity  of  the  imagination  or  a  scene 
from  the  Inferno.  A  German  machine-gun  sputtered  warningly 
in  front  of  them.  Close  at  hand  five  rifle-shots  sounded  in  quick 
succession.  A  loud  clanging  ring  like  the  bell  of  a  tram-car  fol- 
lowed; Adrian's  steel  helmet  was  jolted  over  his  eyes. 

Eric  sat  down  in  a  shell-hole. 

"We'd  better  crawl  this  bit,  we've  been  spotted,"  he  said  quietly. 

But — Adrian  did  not  move.  He  remained  standing  in  the  moon- 
light on  the  edge  of  the  shell-hole,  leaning  on  his  stick. 

A  cool  breeze  played  about  his  forehead,  the  same  queer  smile 
about  his  lips. 

"Sz-z-z-z-z-z !    Zip-zip!    Tack-tack-tack-tack!" 

Something  hit  his  elbow.  It  might  have  been  a  heavy  stone;  he 
was  unconscious  of  the  pain.  A  look  of  happiness,  of  long-delayed 
triumph,  smouldered  in  his  eyes,  and — he  smiled. 

"Get  down,  you  madman!  Get  down!  D'you  want  to  get 
killed  ?"  Eric  gave  a  tug  at  his  friend's  puttees. 

The  latter  paid  no  heed. 

"S-z-z-z-z-z-z !    Zip-zip !     Tack-tack-tack-tack !" 

"Get  down,  I  tell  you!    Are  you  crazy,  man?" 

The  erect  figure  neither  moved  nor  made  any  sign,  but  contin- 
ued to  gaze  at  ease  towards  the  whitish  spectre  of  the  chateau  of 


286  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Hooge,  while  bullets  zipped  and  spat  and  the  German  machine- 
gun  knocked  up  little  splays  of  earth  around  its  feet. 

For  Adrian  was  unconscious  alike  of  Eric's  upturned  face  and 
of  the  sudden  fierce  gleam  of  understanding  that  sprang  into  his 
eyes.  He  saw  beyond,  far  beyond  the  German  lines,  laying  bare 
Mockery,  and  revealing  Despair  ...  a  wraith. 

Love  and  Death  were  joined  at  last  .  .  .   ? 

Quick  as  the  thought  entered  the  other's  mind,  Eric  leaped  up 
and,  putting  upon  the  taller  man  such  a  hold  as  Rugby  footballers 
use,  half-threw,  half-dragged  him  down  into  the  shell-hole. 

§5 

Adrian  may  have  been  stunned  by  the  bullet  which  had  struck 
his  steel  helmet  or  by  his  violent  precipitation  into  the  shell-hole. 
At  all  events,  he  did  not  recover  consciousness  of  himself  again 
until  they  were  once  more  crossing  the  wooden  bridge  that  spans 
the  moat  in  front  of  the  Lille  Gate.  Nor  could  he  afterwards 
recall  the  earlier  part  of  the  walk  back.  When  actuality  did 
return  he  found  one  arm  was  linked  in  Eric's;  the  other  pained  him 
slightly.  So  they  passed  through  the  great  gate,  and  seeing  the 
city  dimly  opening  before  them  like  a  scene  in  some  fantastic  tale, 
realised  that  day  was  at  hand. 

They  walked  without  speaking.  Sparrows  began  to  twitter  in 
a  score  of  shy  gardens  that,  riotous  with  greenery,  hid  like  tear- 
drops amid  the  ruined  houses.  Pigeons  so  often  fed  by  the  hands 
of  children  in  the  Grande  Place  crooned  from  stony  pinnacles,  sur- 
veying each  his  fallen  world.  On  a  skeleton  wall  against  a  purple 
background,  the  legend  "Chocolat  Menier,  Dunkerque,"  con- 
fronted them  with  its  message  of  a  bygone  civilisation;  when  they 
reached  the  dark  narrow  entrance  to  their  inter-mural  home,  a 
flush  had  crept  into  the  sky  above  the  ramparts,  the  morning  star 
being  jewelled  in  a  setting  of  palest  gold  and  hard  turquoise  blue. 

Without  the  opening  in  the  wall,  Eric  stopped  and  faced  his 
friend. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what's  the  meaning  of  this?" 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  287 

Adrian  stared  at  the  ground. 

"Give  me  your  word  you'll  never  try  that  game  on  again." 

The  other  still  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  would  not  meet  his 
friend's.  He  knew  he  had  failed :  failed  in  his  duty  to  Eric,  failed 
in  his  duty  to  himself,  failed — even  of  his  purpose. 

"Give  me  your  word." 

Eric  spoke  sharply. 

It  was  evident  a  grim  struggle  was  going  forward  between  con- 
flicting natures  in  the  man  before  him. 

"Give  me  your  word  or — quit.    This  is  no  place  for  suicides." 

A  sullen  look  had  come  into  Adrian's  face. 

"Damn  it!    My  life's  my  own,  isn't  it?"  he  muttered. 

"No,  my  dear  chap,  that's  the  point — it  isn't.  For  the  time 
being  it's  mine.  And — well,  I  happen  to  want  it." 

Silence  followed  except  for  the  crooning  of  a  pigeon  on  the  ram- 
parts above  their  heads. 

"Pull  yourself  together,  for  God's  sake."  Eric  spoke  more 
gently  now,  but  very  firmly.  "Pull  yourself  together,  and  face  it 
out.  Here  we  are,  all  in  the  same  boat — more  or  less.  We've  all 
got  to  face  things.  We've  all  got  to  go  through  with  it.  Look  at 
old  Arthur  and  the  rest!  And  you  don't  want  to  leave  me  in  the 
lurch,  do  you?" 

"But  Eric "  Adrian  stopped,  a  tremor  of  weakness  in  his 

voice.  "Honestly.  .  .  .  I'm  on  my  beam-ends,  I'm  standing  on 
my  head.  I  can't  promise  anything." 

"Then  you  must  clear  out.  You  must  go  down  the  line.  I 
won't  have  you  with  the  company." 

That  threat  had  its  effect.  The  unhappy  man  saw  what  was 
at  stake — knew  that  in  the  long  run  he  must  give  way,  knew  also 
that  it  was  the  only  worthy  part  left  him  to  play. 

"All  right  .  .  ."  he  muttered.    "All  right.  .  .  ." 

The  full  light  of  morning  streaming  over  Ypres,  seemed  to 
strike  at  some  dark  place  deep  down  inside  him.  He  turned  hur- 
riedly into  the  narrow  passage,  grey  to  the  lips,  and  as  if  unable  to 
bear  the  sight  of  the  new  day. 

He  was  in  terror  of  his  own  soul. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
The  Road 

§  i 

ANOTHER  month  went  by  and  autumn  approached  once  more  when 
the  long-expected  movement  order  arrived. 

The  news  came  one  breezy  August  afternoon  and  it  came  direct 
from  the  headquarters  of  the  Division.  The  groups  standing  and 
lying  about  the  canal  bank  got  it  first;  then,  lightning-like,  it 
flashed  down  the  Yperlee  and  reached  the  innermost  recesses  of 
every  dug-out,  and  was  even  conveyed  to  the  newly  brought-in 
wounded  lying  in  the  dressing-station.  Near  Bridge  4,  it  collected 
a  crowd;  at  the  point  known  as  Blighty  Bridge  quite  a  number 
were  discussing  it  half-an-hour  after  the  first  whisper  had  got 
abroad.  By  nightfall  it  had  crept  along  the  three-quarters  of  a 
mile  of  communication-trench  to  the  front  line;  it  travelled  faster 
than  any  gas-wave.  The  only  people  who  knew  nothing  about  it 
were  the  three  canvas-shrouded  figures  lying  like  mummies  side 
by  side  on  stretchers  in  a  cul-de-sac.  And  they  would  never  know. 

"We're  going  South!" 

Eric  Sinclair  brought  the  news  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
to  the  queer  little  compartment  burrowed  into  the  high  and  steep 
canal  bank,  and  opening  upon  the  waterside  that  was  called  Com- 
pany-headquarters. 

What  a  magic  transformation,  what  a  frank  light  of  joy  ap- 
peared in  the  face  of  young  Arthur  Cornwallis  who  lay  reading — 
but  now  sat  up—on  his  wire-netting  bed! 

"You  don't  mean  it!  ...  Is  that  official,  Eric,  or  are  you  pull- 
ing our  legs?" 

"You  needn't  believe  it  unless  you  like.  I  tell  you  we're  to  be 
relieved  to-night." 

288 


THE  ROAD  289 

"Ah!" 

The  youth  lay  back  and  gazed  rapturously  at  the  wire  under-part 
of  the  bed  above. 

Adrian  who  had  been  staring  at  the  beginnings  of  a  letter  to 
Lady  Knoyle,  his  head  between  his  hands,  his  elbows  leaning  on  the 
table,  looked  up,  too. 

"Relieved  to-night?     Good." 

"Don't  put  on  your  glad  rags  just  yet,  though,"  Eric  added. 
"Where  do  you  think  you're  going?" 

"Oh!  Who  cares?  Anything  to  get  away."  Thus  Corn- 
wallis. 

"You're  going  to  the  Somme,  and  over  the  top.  So  if  you've 
got  anything,  make  a  will.  Adrian  looks  as  if  he'd  made  his 
already." 

For  all  that,  everybody  congratulated  everybody  else,  every  heart 
leapt  for  joy  that  August  day.  Was  not  the  dead-weight  of  Doom 
lifted  from  their  souls  ?  The  Salient  was  to  be  left  behind  with  its 
brown  water-logged  ditches,  its  impotence,  its  festering  corpses  and 
familiar  stench — its  slow  unending  nightmare  by  day  and  by  night 
— its  implacable  Fate.  No  more  sitting  still  and  waiting.  There 
would  be  a  pause  at  any  rate  in  the  procession  of  the  maimed,  the 
dying,  and  the  dead. 

So  all  rejoiced.  And  only  Adrian  Knoyle  looked  indifferently 
beyond  the  intervening  days. 

§   2 

The  day  of  departure  came.  A  still  misty  morning  resolved 
itself  into  brilliant  sunshine  and  great  heat.  As  the  first  train  left 
the  railway-siding  near  the  Poperinghe  Road,  cheer  upon  cheer 
went  up  to  the  blue  sky.  It  was  the  soldiers'  farewell  to  "E-prez," 
as  they  called  it.  "To  the  south !"  They  knew  what  the  future 
held  in  store.  But  what  mattered  it !  Nothing  mattered — to-day. 
To-day  there  was  to  be  nothing  but  singing,  shouting,  and  laughter. 
With  every  mile  the  dread  Salient,  the  treacherous  canal  bank,  the 
death-stricken  city  lay  further  and  further  behind.  .  .  .  The  train 
rolled  on.  Its  rhythm,  its  regular  "clank-clank-clank"  burnt  into 


290  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

the  heat.  By  ten  o'clock  a  broiling  sun  poured  its  rays  upon  the 
young  oak-woods  beyond  Proven,  upon  the  flat  fields  and  vegetable 
gardens  and  the  fruit-laden  orchards,  upon  the  white  highways 
whence  clouds  of  dust  arose.  By  road  the  relieving  corps  was 
moving  up  to  Ypres.  For  many  leagues — even  as  far  as  Worm- 
houdt — the  railway  line  ran  beside  the  road  and  that  road  carried 
unending  columns  of  perspiring,  khaki-clad  troops,  unending  lines 
of  horse  transport  and  motor-lorries,  unending  columns  of  artillery 
• — moving  east.  They  had  come  from  the  Somme.  They  had 
come,  they  announced,  for  a  rest! 

Wormhoudt  was  left  behind,  and  with  it  the  eastward-bending 
army.  There  was  a  glimpse  of  three  white  roads  converging  on  a 
wide,  sun-baked  square,  alive  with  troops.  Then  the  Hill  of  Cassei 
came  into  view,  and  northward  a  wide  vista  of  the  Pas  de  Calais. 
An  undulating  expanse  of  green  fields  and  groups  of  trees  and 
farms  and  cottages  bounded  sharply  by  a  semicircular  rim,  and 
beyond  this  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  Channel.  At  the  edge  of  it,  many 
miles  away,  a  group  of  red-brick  buildings  surmounted  by  tall 
chimneys  and  a  faint  haze  of  smoke — Calais.  Gravelines  not  far 
away,  another  little  cluster  of  houses  and  chimneys  on  the  verge 
of  the  sea. 

A  panorama,  wonderful  in  its  freedom  and  freshness,  to  those 
who  through  four  months  had  seen  nothing  more  spacious  than 
Ypres  viewed  from  the  Salient  on  a  clear  day. 

The  detraining  point  had  an  unpronounceable  name;  that  did 
not  matter.  It  was  a  mere  sun-baked,  sleepy  railway-yard  without 
a  square  inch  of  shade.  Here,  for  the  first  time — no  hint  of  war. 
For  the  first  time  they  seemed  to  leave  the  war  behind,  and  as  they 
marched  out  into  the  country — a  merry,  chaffing,  laughing  column 
— no  stench  of  motor-lorries  and  petrol  or  sight  of  troops  greeted 
them,  but  only  the  heavy  silence  of  the  woods  and  fields  and  vil- 
lages, dreaming  away  their  midday  rest.  A  yellow  cat  strolled 
across  the  village  street,  dogs  lay  basking  outside  cheerful-looking 
cafes — peculiar-looking  dogs,  and  sleepy.  Barely  could  they  raise 
the  energy  to  wag  a  tail  at  the  flies  which  everywhere  buzzed  and 
hummed,  creating  with  the  drowsy  heat  an  indescribable  languor 


THE  ROAD  291 

and  murmur  of  summer.  The  column  halted  in  a  shady  oak-wood, 
and  the  men,  recklessly  happy,  threw  themselves  down  amid  the 
long  grass,  convolvuli,  and  wild  parsley.  In  this  drowsy  hum  of 
summer,  in  the  measured  beat  of  the  greenfinch's  song  and  the 
"ting-ting-ting"  of  the  yellow-hammer,  in  the  wistful  cry  of  the 
soaring  kestrel,  in  the  quiet,  mysterious  woods  and  the  sun-dappled, 
mossy  earth,  in  the  poetry  of  the  long  white  roads,  in  the  glimpse 
of  great  distances  fading  to  mist  and  sea,  in  the  "chop,  chop"  of 
the  wood-cutter  and  the  deep  contrasting  silence  of  the  country — 
was  found  a  hidden  balm  for  all  these  war-weary  souls. 

And  so  at  the  zenith  of  the  afternoon,  smoking,  singing,  and 
dust-covered,  they  marched  into  billets.  It  was  such  a  village  as 
may  be  found  in  Devonshire  or  Dorset.  It  was  redolent  of  Eng- 
land with  its  thatched  farmsteads  and  cottages  supporting  masses 
of  creeper,  honeysuckle,  and  clambering  roses. 

At  their  billets  the  three  officers  were  met  by  an  aged  woman, 
in  a  shawl  and  sun-bonnet,  who  greeted  them  almost  effusively  at 
the  door  of  her  cottage. 

She  showed  them  two  clean  sweet-scented  rooms  opening  out  of 
the  little  parlour,  their  wide  windows  overlooking  a  vegetable  and 
flower-garden  with  box-borders  and  a  box-arbour  in  the  corner. 
Beyond,  the  fields,  and  next  to  it  other  shady  gardens,  full  of  scents, 
hollyhocks,  late  roses  and  ripening  fruit. 

"This  is  luck,  isn't  it?"  remarked  Eric.     "I  shall  have  a  bath." 

"Glorious,  isn't  it?"  echoed  Cornwallis. 

Adrian  smiled. 

After  tea  the  three  officers  took  books  out  into  the  box-arbour  at 
the  end  of  the  garden  and  abandoned  themselves  to  the  stillness 
of  the  summer's  evening.  They  dozed.  The  air  was  full  of 
strange  yet  familiar  sounds,  the  hum  of  insects,  the  twittering  of 
wrens,  warblers,  finches;  the  chattering  of  starlings,  the  "roo-coo- 
coo"  of  a  wood-pigeon  in  elms  near  the  church,  the  "purr-r-r"  of 
stock-doves,  and  presently  the  tolling  of  a  church  bell. 

Within  the  cottage  the  aged  dame  could  be  seen  entertaining  a 
friend.  The  two  were  chatting  together  while  knitting,  and 
through  the  snatches  of  conversation  that  occasionally  came  to  their 


292  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

ears  was  conjured  up  for  the  three  listeners  a  picture  of  the  daily 
life  of  this  obscure  little  backwater,  so  self-contained,  so  near  to, 
yet  untouched,  unmoved  by  war.  Lying  about  a  meadow,  sep- 
arated from  the  garden  by  a  tiny  stream,  they  could  see  the  men  in 
worn  and  faded  khaki,  smoking,  sleeping,  talking.  It  was  that 
hour  so  refreshing  after  the  heat  and  burden  of  a  summer's  day 
when  cattle  meander  down  to  the  waterside  to  cool  their  blistered 
legs  in  the  shallows,  when  the  farm-hands  come  in  from  the  har- 
vest-field, when  cart-horses  clank  into  farmyards  laden  with 
children. 

"Yes — this  is  a  bit  of  all  right!"  sighed  Eric,  lying  back  in  a 
deck-chair  with  a  pile  of  letters  in  his  lap.  "We've  struck  lucky — 
for  once.  Even  old  Adrian's  gone  to  sleep  over  it." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him,  Eric?    He's  changed  a  lot  lately." 
"Oh!  the  war,  I  suppose — and  other  things.     One  wants  to 
make  life  easy  for  him." 

Eric  took  up  a  letter  and  began  to  read  it  presumably  as  a  hint, 
thought  Cornwallis,  that  he  did  not  wish  to  discuss  the  matter 
further. 

Presently  his  subaltern  observed: 
"The  men  look  jolly  over  there." 

"Yes,  I  like  to  see  the  poor  devils  enjoying  themselves.  They've 
had  a  coarse  time  lately." 

"Funny  creatures,  aren't  they?"  commented  the  other.  "They're 
like  a  lot  of  children.  I  thought  they  were  wonderful  up  in  the 
Salient,  though  they  did  grumble  a  certain  amount." 

"Oh!  they're  all  right  if  they're  treated  properly.    But,  by  the 
way,  it's  pay-day  to-morrow,  isn't  it  ?    I  suppose  they'll  all  go  round 
the  estaminets  and  get  drunk." 
"Hark!" 

"It's  a  long,  long  trail  to  Blight — y, 

To  the  land  of  my  dreams, 
Where  the  nightingales  are  singing, 

And  a  white  moon  beams; 
There's  a  long,  long  night  of  waiting 

Until  my  dreams  all  come  true, 
'Till  the  day  when  I'll  be  going  down 
That  long,  long  trail  with  you." 


THE  ROAD  293 

Seated  in  a  wide  circle  a  number  of  soldiers  were  singing  this, 
their  favourite  sentimental  ditty.  Nearby  other  groups,  some  lying, 
some  kneeling,  were  playing  a  mysterious  game  of  cards. 

"Five-and-a-half  —  seven  —  twelve  —  fifteen  —  twenty-eight! 
Housy-housy!"  One  man  was  calling  out  these  numbers  in  a  loud, 
monotonous  sing-song. 

It  was  the  game  known  as  "housy-housy" ;  others  in  the  field 
were  playing  crown-and-anchor. 

Beside  the  stream  were  men  washing,  bathing  and  tending  their 
feet.  Some  lay  naked  in  the  sun;  others,  sitting  under  fruit-trees, 
were  solemnly  engaged  in  picking  the  lice  from  their  bodies. 
Others  again  were  washing  their  garments,  lying  on  their  backs 
asleep,  or  talking  and  smoking. 

The  following  day  was  spent  in  doing  nothing.  All  dozed  away 
the  hot  middle  hours,  and  only  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  walked 
out  into  the  country,  watched  the  peasants  working  in  the  fields — 
and  even  assisted  them — admired  the  variegated  cottage-gardens. 

The  battalion  marched  again  at  dawn — a  misty  dawn  that  pre- 
saged great  heat.  No  one  minded  the  early  hour,  for  these  moist 
blue  mists  which  blotted  out  the  countryside  and  cloaked  mys- 
teriously the  woods  and  fields  were  cool  and  invigorating.  All  felt 
fit,  there  was  the  same  laughing  and  singing  as  the  battalion  swung 
along  the  dusty  road.  They  passed  through  villages — villages  old- 
fashioned  and  sweet-scented  like  the  one  just  left — whose  farms 
and  cottages  and  inhabitants  yet  slept.  Only  an  occasional  farm- 
boy,  milk-pail  in  hand,  came  to  a  gate  to  see  the  long  column  go 
by.  But  as  the  morning  advanced,  shafts  of  sunlight  began  to 
pierce  through  the  mists,  people  appeared  at  the  gates  of  their 
cottages,  at  the  cross-roads,  and  in  groups  and  little  family  parties 
on  their  way  to  mass;  which  event  was  the  first  intimation  the 
troops  had  that  it  was  Sunday,  for  in  the  life  of  movement  the  days 
passed  almost  uncounted.  Halts  became  more  welcome  as  the 
noontide  heat  crept  on;  by  the  side  of  woods,  shady  and  cool,  on 
the  edge  of  cornfields,  in  lush  grass,  cornflower-starred  and  scarlet- 
splashed  with  poppies,  on  village  greens  where  geese  and  turkeys 
wandered  and  children  gathered  round.  Out  of  the  mists  there 


294  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

peeped  presently,  now  close  at  hand,  the  Hill  of  Cassel,  with  grey, 
old-world  houses  grouped  on  its  summit.  Thence  might  be  seen 
on  a  clear  day  Ypres  and  the  dreadful  Pilckem  Ridge  on  the  one 
side;  on  the  other,  the  sea  about  Nieuport  almost  to  Ostend,  and 
the  ships  in  harbour  at  Dunkirk — away  to  the  south,  Armentieres 
and  Merville  and  the  dim  Forest  of  Nieppe,  westward  the  quiet 
villages  of  the  Pas  de  Calais  as  far  as  that  town  itself. 

They  halted  for  dinners  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  close  to  the  rail- 
way-station. After  a  couple  of  hours'  rest,  during  which  the 
majority  slept,  they  moved  again.  Cassel  shimmered  in  the  heat- 
haze  ;  the  sun  scorched  down  upon  another  bare  station-yard.  Two 
long  trains  stood  in  sidings,  the  engines  with  steam  up ;  part  of  the 
brigade  had  already  gone  on  ahead.  Here  stood  a  group  of  red- 
capped  Staff  Officers,  there  a  couple  of  gendarmes  in  black,  silver- 
braided  uniforms,  and  a  few  French  railway  officials  in  sky-blue. 
Once  the  men  were  aboard,  there  was  no  waiting ;  the  train  started 
on  its  sixty-mile  journey  at  a  good  speed. 

And  what  a  perspiring,  jolting,  stifling  journey  it  was!  It  re- 
minded Adrian  of  going  home  from  school  for  the  summer  holidays. 
When  the  train  stopped,  as  it  occasionally  did,  no  sound  came  but 
the  song  of  the  heat;  then  he  listened  for  the  familiar  clatter  of 
milk-cans,  which  seems  a  thing  inseparable  from  hot  days  at  way- 
side country  stations. 

The  landscape,  from  being  flat  and  ordinary  at  first,  grew  more 
and  more  Arcadian  after  they  had  passed  through  the  tract  of  coal- 
mines and  slag-heaps  between  Bethune  and  Loos.  In  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  St.  Pol  came  hills  crowned  with  green  woods,  valleys 
and  deep  combes  tumbling  into  one  another,  full  hedgerows  and 
farmsteads  and  villages,  grey  or  reddish  lichen-grown  church 
steeples  peeping  out  from  the  dense  foliage  of  trees. 

The  train  ran  through  quickly,  there  were  few  stoppages,  and  in 
the  late  afternoon  the  detraining-point  was  reached  at  a  small 
country  town  in  Picardy.  When  they  had  detrained  they  found 
the  field-kitchens  drawn  up  in  an  open  grassy  space;  under  shady 
chestnuts  nearby  the  quarter-master  had  arranged  a  repast  con- 
sisting of  boiled  eggs,  tinned  salmon  and  salad,  coffee  and  rolls  ad 


THE  ROAD  295 

lib.,  jam  and  honey,  omelettes  and  light  beer.  The  gay  spirit  of  the 
troops  was  shared  by  most  of  the  officers.  It  was  infectious.  No 
sooner  had  arms  been  piled  and  the  "dismiss"  given,  than  jesting 
and  "ragging"  began  among  the  subalterns  sitting  and  lying  under 
the  chestnuts.  The  company-commanders  smoked  pipes  and  looked 
on: — Eric  Sinclair,  cool,  aimiably  detached  and  immaculate  as  to 
uniform;  Alston  with  his  large  frame  and  features,  self-contained, 
critical,  a  little  inhuman  perhaps — a  little  hard;  Vivian,  with  his 
engaging  manner,  his  quick,  subtle  features ;  Darell,  tall  and  dark, 
with  bold  and  flashing  eyes  that  bespoke  a  warm-hearted  impulsive- 
ness, a  spirited  temper. 

A  short  distance  away  under  an  especially  large  tree,  Colonel 
Steele  was  enthroned,  dividing  his  attention  between  a  map  and  a 
large  tea-basket  which  he  shared  with  his  second-in-command, 
Major  Brough,  whose  well-fed  appearance  so  far  belied  the  mean- 
ing of  the  term  "active  service,"  and  his  adjutant  Langley,  in  polo 
breeches  and  a  khaki  stock. 

A  row  of  stretchers  on  the  railway  station  platform,  bearing 
recently-wounded  men,  and  occasional  Red  Cross  motor  am- 
bulances arriving  and  departing,  alone  served  to  remind  the  new- 
comers of  the  grim  business  that  was  going  forward  some  twenty- 
five  kilometres  away. 

The  typical  tree-shaded,  white-faced,  provincial  town  lying  in  a 
basin  among  low  hills,  wore  its  Sunday  air  of  relaxation  and  rest. 
The  bourgeois  were  taking  their  evening  stroll  along  the  central 
boulevard,  stopping  and  gazing  with  a  mild  interest  at  the  resting 
troops.  There  were  the  precocious  French  youths,  with  their  vari- 
coloured bow-ties,  their  rakishly-perched  soft  hats,  their  canes  in 
hand,  strutting  about  in  parties,  ogling  the  hatless  girls,  laughing, 
sporting  and  showing  off.  Others  stood  about  chatting  or  playing 
leap-frog  outside  their  houses. 

When,  near  to  six  o'clock,  the  battalion  marched  out  in  a  cloud 
of  dust  with  drums  and  fifes  playing,  the  entire  population  gath- 
ered at  the  cross-roads,  and  the  scene  was  one  of  animation,  even 
of  enthusiasm.  A  twenty-mile  march  lay  ahead.  And  how  far, 
how  straight,  how  white  the  highway  looked  with  its  long  grada- 


296  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

tions  rising  one  beyond  another  until  it  faded  at  last  into  that 
golden  land  where  the  sun  would  presently  set!  Eric  rode  at 
the  head  of  the  company,  Adrian  and  Arthur  Cornwallis  marched 
in  rear. 

"Well — I  wonder  how  it  will  all  end,"  Cornwallis  remarked 
after  they  had  tramped  in  silence  for  some  while.  He  seemed 
to  assume  the  utterance  of  a  common  thought. 

Into  the  faces  of  these  two  something  of  the  calm  evening  light 
had  crept,  the  one  expressing  deep  thought,  the  other  a  yearning 
half-suggested. 

"I  don't  wonder — particularly,"  Adrian  replied. 

His  tone  had  a  positive  quality  that  caused  Cornwallis  to  look 
up  from  the  road  in  surprise. 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

The  other  did  not  at  once  reply. 

"You're  always  making  these  cryptic  remarks,  Adrian.  I  wish 
you  wouldn't." 

Cornwallis  had  not  in  the  foregoing  months  been  able  to  make 
out  what  was  passing  in  his  brother-officer's  mind.  He  had  never 
accepted  the  theory  of  war-weariness.  He  knew  there  was  some- 
thing more  to  be  accounted  for,  but  just  because  he  had  been  of 
Adrian  and  Rosemary's  little  coterie  in  London,  he  felt  barred 
from  inviting  confidences  which  the  former  did  not  offer.  Adrian 
had  earned  in  the  battalion  the  nickname  of  "The  Silent 
(K)  night."  But  his  present  companion  had  given  no  hint  to 
anyone  but  Eric  that  he  suspected  the  cause  of  the  silence;  and 
the  mystery  remained. 

This  evening,  however,  Cornwallis  noticed  for  the  first  time 
in  his  friend's  eyes  (for  all  their  deep  preoccupation)  a  look  that 
was  not  altogether  of  unhappiness. 

"Do  explain  yourself,  Adrian !"  he  begged. 

"Well — we're  going  over  the  top,  aren't  we?" 

"You're  not  looking  forward  to  it,  though?" 

"Oh! — I  don't  worry.  One  might  as  well  go  through  with 
it  now  as  any  other  time." 

"I  always  thought  you  loathed  the  war." 


THE  ROAD  297 

"I  do — in  a  way." 

Cornwallis  thought  a  moment.     Presently  he  §aid: 

"Adrian!" 

"Well?" 

"Are  you  out  to  get  killed?" 

The  question  took  Knoyle  unawares;  but  the  fact  did  not  betray 
itself  in  his  voice  or  manner. 

"Why— on  earth  should  I  be?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  ask.  But — you're  so 
queer  and — secret.  I  wondered  how  other  people  felt  about  it." 

"There  comes  a  point  when  one  doesn't  care  much  either 
way." 

"I  wish  I  could  get  to  that  stage.    Frankly,  I  want  to  live." 

"I  did,  too." 

"Honestly— do  you  think  one  an  awful  coward  for  that?" 

"There  are  no  cowards  in  this  war.  There  are  people  who 
fight,  or  try  to,  and — lookers-on." 

"Adrian,  if  you  went,  I  should  feel — well,  that  everything  had 
gone." 

"I'm  glad  somebody  feels  like  that."  Humour,  faintly  ironical, 
flickered  through  his  eyes. 

"Don't  be  so  dreadfully — fatalistic,"  Cornwallis  said.  "Can't 
you  see  how  much  there  is  to  live  for — still?  Evenings  like  this, 
for  instance.  .  .  .  One  thinks  of  the  happiest — I  mean  the  quietest 
— times  of  one's  life.  We  live  in  Dorsetshire.  Dorsetshire's 
rather  like  this.  .  .  .  Those  bells  pealing  down  in  the  valley  make 
me  think  of  the  time  between  tea  and  evening  church  in  summer 
when  Beryl — that's  my  sister — and  father  and  mother  and  I, 
always  sit  out  with  books  under  a  big  cedar  opposite  our  hall 
door.  The  rooks  make  a  tremendous  noise  there.  It's  like  a 
big  crowd  of  people  all  talking  at  once." 

"I  hate  church  bells,  personally;  they  make  me  think  of  the 
family  pew — and  all  that." 

Why  he  made  the  rather  brutal  remark,  Adrian  could  not  him- 
self have  said.  Perhaps  Cornwallis's  discursive  sentimentality 
irritated  him.  Yet  wasn't  he  himself  thinking  of  the  Three  Hills 


298  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

— the  Three  Hills  with  the  sunlight  carmine  and  deep  on  their 
steep  sides,  the  wild  song  of  the  skylarks,  the  golden  mist  lying 
upon  the  Vale,  a  long  procession  of  rooks  strung  out  across  the 
western  glow,  and  the  view  looking  down  on  Stane  Deverill. 

Yet  he  found  it  impossible  to  express  their  common  mood  in 
words.  Something  withheld  response.  Open  his  heart — he  could 
not. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  Cornwallis  continued,  "but  I  can 
see  you're  in  some  trouble  and  I  wish  I  could  help  you." 

"Whatever  must  be,  must  be — that's  the  truth  of  life.  And 
it's  a  long  job  learning  it." 

"It  isn't  death  in  the  abstract  one  dreads — it's  the  before  death. 
It's — the  sheer  ugliness,  the  utter  negation  that  kill — the  an- 
tithesis to — this."  He  pointed  to  the  peaceful  landscape,  speaking 
with  much  earnestness.  "It's  this — living  in  a  sort  of  Hell.  I 
sometimes  wonder  whether  we  aren't  going  through  Hell  now 
for  our  own  sins  or  the  sins  of  some  previous  existence.  I  know 
I'm  not  the  stuff  soldiers  are  made  of.  I  think  I  must  have  been 
meant  for  an  artist  or  something.  I've  always  wanted  beauty — 
the  quiet  delicate  sort  of  beauty.  Landscapes  and  fine  poetry  and 
wonderful  music,  and — wonderful  people.  I've  always  dreamed 
of  something  less  crude  and  more — rare  than  the  material  life 
we  live.  I  suppose  that's  all  too — too  nebulous." 

"No;  it's  simply  not  true — on  the  average." 

"I  believe  you've  still  got  it,  Adrian.  Only  something's  crushed 
it  out  of  you — or  deep,  deep  into  you.  .  .  .  It's  the  utter — gro- 
tesqueness  of  everything  that  appals  one.  You  look  at  this" — and 
he  again  indicated  with  his  hand  the  sunset  colouring  woods  and 
fields — "and  think  of — Walker.  Well,  Walker's  women  meant 
a  lot  to  him.  I  can't  forget  Walker.  It's  the  contemplation  of 
that  I  can't  face — the  physical  degradation  of  one's  body.  I  sup- 
pose it's  a  silly  idea!  But  I  seem  somehow  to  have  learnt  to 
love  my  body  for  its  own  sake  out  here — to  respect  it.  It  was 
a  nightmare  to  me  to  think  of  anything  one  has  known  so  person- 
ally, mixed  and  mangled  with  that  filthy  soil  like — like  an  old 
sandbag  or  something." 


THE  ROAD  299 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Adrian,  for  the  first  time  serious;  "one  must 
think  of — the  long  sleep  and  the  quiet." 

"But  there's  so  much  still  to  be  lived." 

"Death  can't  be  harder  than  life." 

"The  meaning  and  purpose  of  it  all — that's  what  I  want  to 
know." 

"Sometimes  one  thinks  one  sees  light  breaking,"  Adrian  said, 
"and  sometimes — it's  all  as  black  as  pitch.  And  sometimes  one 
thinks  there  is  a  meaning  behind  it.  And  sometimes  ...  I  don't 
know." 


§  3 

They  tramped  on.  All  tramped  on  with  measured  tread  that 
seemed  to  symbolise  something  more  inevitable,  less  ephemeral  than 
they. 

Always  the  road  stretched,  poplar-lined  and  straight  as  a  ruler, 
seemingly  leagues  ahead.  Sometimes  it  was  obscured  by  clouds  of 
chalky  dust,  usually  it  simply  disappeared  over  the  rim  of  the 
horizon  into  that  sunset  land  whose  promise  was  not  of  earth. 

The  men  began  to  sing  their  marching  song  about  "The  long, 
long  trail";  it  sounded  to  Adrian  like  a  dirge  without  sadness. 

They  were  passing  through  a  country  far  different  from  the 
flat,  closely  cultivated  small-holdings  of  Belgium.  Rolling  hills, 
crowned  with  woodland  and  scored  with  high  leafy  hedgerows, 
stretched  away  into  distances  infinitely  deep  and  blue.  It  was  the 
season  of  the  harvest.  All  about  the  tumbled  valleys  and  hillsides, 
the  stocks  and  sheaves  lay  awaiting  the  wagoner.  The  reaper  had 
done  his  work;  rooks  rose  from  the  fields  and  wended  their  home- 
ward way ;  from  grey  village  churches  hidden  in  combes  and  clefts 
came  the  sound  of  bells.  There  could  be  found  in  this  late  summer 
scene  no  jarring  note,  but  as  the  long  column  mounted  the  last 
rise  the  whole  calm  panorama  lay  outspread  behind  them,  a  study 
in  blue  and  gold,  untainted,  unsullied  by  any  hint  of  war.  Blue 
sky,  blue  mist,  blue  distances,  a  greenish-blue  tinge  on  the  woods 


300  WAY  OF  REF ELATION 

— and  golden  sunbeams  sloping  across  the  yellow  stubble,  kindling 
to  copper-red  the  wheat  and  oats. 

At  the  start  the  march  had  been  noisy  and  boisterous,  laughter 
and  singing  rippling  along  the  ranks,  but  after  the  first  halt  every 
man  settled  down  grimly  to  his  work.  It  would  take  every  man's 
utmost  strength  and  determination  to  reach  his  journey's  end.  So, 
as  the  sun  was  setting  and  only  four  miles  of  the  journey  had 
been  covered,  no  more  shouting  and  laughter  were  heard,  but 
the  column  tramped  on  in  a  silence  that  was  almost  uncanny. 
They  passed  through  a  large  village  with  a  long,  wide,  grass- 
bordered  street  of  foolish-looking  white-and-blue  painted  houses. 
The  place  was  full  of  troops ;  another  brigade  had  marched  in  only 
a  few  hours  earlier.  Beyond  the  village  a  forest  stretched,  entirely 
covering  the  surrounding  hills. 

When  they  entered  the  forest  the  sun  had  barely  set,  but  under 
the  great  oaks,  whose  turning  foliage  arched  over  the  road,  form- 
ing seemingly  an  endless  tunnel,  night  reigned.  It  was  quite  dark 
there,  and  when  after  a  mile  or  two  they  emerged,  twilight  had 
descended  upon  the  larger  world  and  they  could  barely  distinguish 
the  hillside  opposite.  Here  the  column  halted;  the  tired  troops 
rested  in  the  cool  dusk,  watching  the  last  embers  of  a  lingering 
sunset  die  out  of  the  sky.  The  ceaseless  chirruping  of  grasshoppers 
and  crickets,  the  occasional  croaking  of  a  bull-frog  in  some  distant 
pool,  and  the  oft-repeated  "whoo-twhoo-whoo"  of  an  owl  coming 
from  the  depths  of  the  woods  made  a  sort  of  sleep-song.  From 
a  railway-cutting  not  far  off  one  lone  lamp  blinked  mysteriously, 
and  the  fitful  whistle  of  an  engine  emphasised  the  remoteness  and 
solitude  of  the  place. 

Now  it  was  completely  dark.  A  thousand  summery  scents  rose 
from  the  earth,  the  sky  was  bejewelled  with  stars,  and  low  down 
on  the  horizon  a  golden-coppery  harvest-moon,  not  yet  at  the  full, 
sailed  into  the  heavens. 

Adrian  and  Cornwallis  half  sat,  half  lay  side  by  side,  their 
backs  resting  against  the  gnarled  trunk  of  a  giant  oak,  all  about 
them  ferns,  moss,  moss-scented  earth.  Neither  spoke.  The  night 
was  indescribably  contemplative,  blending  strangely  and  sym- 


THE  ROAD  301 

pathetically  with  the  thoughts  they  had  so  lately  been  exchanging. 

Close  at  hand  they  could  discern  the  dim  figures  of  the  soldiers 
lying  around  in  all  shapes,  all  attitudes,  all  positions.  Some 
on  the  back,  hands  to  thigh,  heels  together,  gazing  upward;  some 
on  the  side  and  some  curled  up  as  though  in  pleasant  sleep;  some 
flat  on  face,  arms  and  legs  outspread;  some  with  head  resting  on 
arm  or  pack,  one  knee  raised.  ...  What  were  their  thoughts, 
he  wondered?  Was  it  with  this — this  profundity  of  beauty  and 
solitude  and  rest  in  their  hearts — that  they  would  enter  upon 
the  bloody  nightmare  which  lay  before  them  ?  What  did  the  stars 
say,  those  stars  so  wise,  so  inscrutable  that  in  his  childhood  he 
had  thought  of  them  as  the  watching  eyes  of  God  ?  What  did 
the  leaves  whisper  to  them — of  night,  of  sleep,  of  silence,  of  in- 
finity? Not,  he  conceived,  of  foreboding  or  any  "sadness  of  fare- 
well," for  it  was  in  England  that  they  had  left  their  loves,  their 
griefs,  their  hopes,  their  longings  or  regrets,  and  all  those  things 
that  make  up  the  final  sum  of  existence  and  mortal  time.  No! 
He  conceived  of  them  as  thinking  calmly  and  rationally  of  Death 
as  of  a  thing  ordained — even  as  he  himself  thought  of  it — knowing 
that  it  was  ever  near,  knowing  that  for  many  the  end  of  the  road 
was  their  journey's  end,  not  dreading  or  even  allowing  themselves 
to  dread  until  the  supreme  moment  came;  better  still,  not  think- 
ing at  all. 

He,  for  his  part,  dwelt  in  an  atmosphere  of  reflection :  of  thought 
about  the  days  still  to  pass,  of  the  nights  still  to  come  and  go, 
to  be  numbered  perhaps  on  the  fingers,  perhaps  a  while  longer  yet. 
But  one  thing  he  never  doubted — the  road's  ending.  He  knew 
brooding  curiosities.  Where  at  last  would  this  body  rest,  where 
this  soul  alight  or  flit  in  the  eternity  to  come?  Strange  the 
thought  that  days  and  nights  such  as  these  would  succeed  one 
another  with  succeeding  summers,  autumns,  winters,  that  the  sea- 
sons he  had  felt  so  intensely  would  pass  serenely  overhead,  and 
that  even  this  miasma  which  blanched  Nature  and  sickened  the 
world  to-day — that,  too,  would  pass.  Eric,  Cornwallis,  at  home 
in  England,  married  perhaps,  leading  steadfast  and  ordered  English 
lives;  those  other  lives  he  had  left  behind  and  which  had  been 


302  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

so  closely  linked  with  his — they,  too,  going  forward,  cycling, 
rotating  like  the  days  and  the  nights  and  the  seasons;  and  this — 
this  feeling,  exacting  being  called  Himself  with  whom  he  had 
journeyed  through  three-and-twenty  years — where? 

Was  there  pity  in  this  mood  ?  But  he  knew  no  conscious  pity — 
only  a  looking-forward. 

And  he  wanted — a  looking-glass.  He  wanted  to  study  the  fea- 
tures, the  outward  expression,  of  this  entity  whose  innermost 
thought  from  the  dawn  of  consciousness  to  this  hour  he  had  so 
intensely  experienced;  that  he  might  note — before  its  little  Act 
was  ended — what  light,  what  shadow,  what  permanent  line  or 
wrinkle,  what  serene  or  sullen  shade,  Fate  had  imprinted  there. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  weeks  he  thought  definitively  of  Rose- 
mary. Almost  a  year  had  passed  since  their  last  walk  together, 
since  their  parting.  And  here  he  was  again — at  the  leaf-fall. 

He  thought  of  her  objectively,  in  the  abstract — for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  as  something  outside  himself,  as  something  that 
had  left  him  and  would  soon  pass  beyond  his  consciousness  for 
ever;  and  was  already,  as  regards  himself,  beyond  pain.  Her  also 
he  saw  as  the  years  went  by — after,  long  after,  he  had  passed 
beyond  her  ken — playing  out  her  part  in  a  self-created  drama, 
making  and  moving  life:  ever  drawing  and  enthralling,  entangling 
and  selecting  and  rejecting  as  her  nature  was;  challenging  fortune 
and  playing  with  fire  as  was  her  delight;  obeying  impulses  she 
barely  understood,  swaying  a  world  she  but  dimly  comprehended, 
looking  out  upon  that  world,  half-pleased,  half-mischievous,  yet 
doubting  sometimes  and  fearful,  with  the  naivete  of  Youth.  He 
saw  her  never  as  the  progenitor  or  the  instigator,  never  as  the 
plotter  or  the  originator  in  the  complicating  affairs  of  men — never 
certainly  as  the  conscious  agent  of  malice  or  of  wrong — but  as 
the  sport  and  the  instrument  of  a  Destiny  incomparably  stronger 
than  herself,  immeasurably  beyond  her  control.  And,  thinking 
of  her,  it  was  inevitable  that  he  should  think  of  Gina  Maryon, 
with  whom  her  fate  and  his  seemed  knit  to  some  obscure  and 
malign  end.  He  thought  of  Gina  Maryon,  in  contrast  to,  and 
yet  in  collusion  with  Rosemary,  as  the  vital  and  the  inspiring 


THE  ROAD  303 

thing,  as  the  human  sprite,  as  the  fitful  spark  lighting  fires  which 
might  never  be  put  out.  He  saw  Gina  Maryon  hovering  eternally 
in  the  wings  of  that  little  drama  in  which  she,  too,  played  an 
allotted  part:  now  darting  upon  the  stage,  interfering  now  and 
now  disappearing,  instigating,  originating,  pulling  strings  this  way 
and  that,  always  the  sprightly  yet  ill-omened  being  that  had  played 
havoc  with  human  action  since  time  began. 

In  the  background  and  yet  a  potent  figure,  he  discerned  Upton. 
He  looked  through  a  microscope  and  perceived  this  molecule  so 
inadequate  to,  so  incommensurate  with  and  yet  so  vital  to  the 
beings  in  whose  experience  he  had  figured.  The  vitality  of  mole- 
cules, the  potentiality  of  germs!  Nor  could  he  regard  this — 
re-agent  as  other  than  a  pawn,  an  objective  of  some  curious  feminine 
perversity  by  man  little  understood. 

Faith  and  Eric  alone  stood  for  him  as  substantially  true.  All 
the  rest  was  fluid,  nothing  defined  and  stationary,  nothing  merely 
existed  or  remained;  all,  it  might  seem,  in  the  present  time,  too 
near  the  primal  forces,  too  perilously  situated,  too  instinct  with 
chaos  and  strife,  to  admit  of  that.  Love,  Nature,  Death,  Pleasure, 
Evil,  Pain!  Of  these  was  their  lot  cast.  How  nakedly  already 
the  War  had  revealed  each  one  of  them!  And  if  in  the  case  of 
the  two  women  he  could  conceive  of  one  as  consumed  at  last  by 
the  very  forces  which  had  ordained  her,  the  other — was  without 
end. 

Eric  and  Faith  alone  remained. 


§4 

Before  nine  o'clock  the  march  was  resumed,  but  the  men  soon 
began  to  tire  again,  and  towards  the  middle  of  the  night  they 
could  scarcely  stumble  onward  in  their  fours.  After  many  months 
in  the  trenches  they  had  marched  thirty  miles  since  dawn,  and 
the  effort  was  proving  almost  too  great.  But  the  only  form 
of  complaint  heard  was  the  sullen  swearing  and  muttered  abuse 
which  broke  out  every  time  Colonel  Steele  and  his  adjutant  can- 


304  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

tered  along  the  column  with  their  unvarying  shout  of  "Keep  step, 
there!  March  by  the  right!  Don't  straggle!  Keep  in  your 
fours!"  and  so  forth.  Then  among  themselves  the  men  muttered, 
"Blast  his  soul !  Let  'im  carry  a  rifle  and  forty-pound  pack  'isself. 
'E  ain't  no  bloody  good  nor  yet  'is  bloody  adjutant  either.  Wait 
till  we  go  over  the  top — you  won't  see  either  of  'em  for  dust!" 

At  intervals  of  a  mile  or  so,  a  footsore  or  utterly  exhausted 
soldier  would  sink  down  by  the  roadside,  gasping  "I  can't  get  no 
further,"  and  have  to  be  carried  the  last  lap  on  a  transport  wagon. 
Then  Colonel  Steele  wrould  shout  angrily,  "Now  then,  no  more 
falling  out.  Come  along  men.  You've  got  to  stick  it."  However, 
the  end  of  the  march  was  near,  and  soon  the  head  of  the  column, 
after  passing  through  a  village  which  seemed  to  climb  steeply  a 
hillside,  turned  into  the  blackness  of  a  wood.  Huts  were  found 
in  which  the  men  threw  themselves  down  on  bare  boards  without 
a  word.  Nearby  was  a  farmhouse  with  courtyard  and  barn.  On 
the  floor  of  the  latter  Eric,  Adrian  and  Cornwallis  stretched  them- 
selves without  even  waiting  for  a  meal. 

Already,  before  they  slept  the  birds  were  awaking,  and  they 
could  sense  that  clean  fresh  feeling  in  the  air  which  comes  just 
before  dawn  in  summer.  Already  the  cool  grey  light  began  to 
creep  in  through  the  open  doors  and  windows  of  the  barn. 

Adrian  dreamt.  .  .  . 

All  seemed  dark,  silent,  closed  in,  and  utterly  lonely.  Nor  was 
there  sense  of  any  neighbouring  human  presence.  He  wished  to 
move  but  feared  to,  feeling  hemmed  about  on  every  side.  He 
wished  to  open  his  eyes,  but  the  lids  seemed  weighted  down — and 
there  came  no  gleam  of  light.  He  wanted  to  cry  out,  but  his 
voice  was  constrained  and  he  felt  a  dead-weight  from  above.  He 
noticed  a  musty  smell.  He  could  neither  move  nor  see  nor  utter; 
he  had  the  feeling  of  being  a  prisoner  beyond  human  aid. 

At  first  he  experienced  no  sensitiveness,  seemed  to  retain  no 
nerves.  But  gradually  he  began  to  realise  that  while  he  lay  still 
and  helpless,  there  was  all  about  him  movement,  creeping,  crawling 
movement,  everything  creeping,  crawling,  like  a  thousand  atoms; 


THE  ROAD  305 

and  that  while  his  body  did  not  move,  it,  too,  was  creeping, 
crawling,  hiving  like  a  swarm  of  bees — verminously.  He  now 
began  to  feel  upon  his  skin  tickling  feet — feet  light  and  cold  and 
slow  of  movement,  creeping,  crawling — verminously. 

Every  effort  he  made  to  rise,  to  shout,  to  scream,  to  see — was 
frustrated.  He  could  not.  But  all  over  his  body  the  movement 
went  on — across  his  face,  his  chest,  his  arm-pits,  the  soles  of  his 
feet  and  the  back  of  his  head — feet  lightly,  coldly  tickling.  He 
seemed  to  be  alive  with  them — those  tiny  pin-point  footsteps  of 
the  clammy  damp  which  he  now  felt  above,  close  in,  and  around. 

He  struck  out. 

Emptiness ! 

Nor  spiritually  was  he  now  alone.  Faces  looked  out  of  the 
blankness  above  him.  Walker  he  saw  as  he  last  had  seen  him, 
before  he  disappeared  for  ever ;  Pemberton  of  old ;  Eric  and  Corn- 
wallis  he  saw — those  two  true  and  trusty  friends.  And  Arden 
(why  Arden?).  And  Rosemary  was  there,  pale,  ethereal,  remote, 
not  as  he  had  ever  seen  her  in  life — but  there.  She  even  came 
close  to  him,  nestled  down  beside  him — airily  kissed  him.  Yet 
strange  (he  thought)  that  as  they  lay  together  he  could  feel  no 
warm"  breath  of  hers  upon  his  cheek,  only  cold  lifeless  flesh. 

Mute  terror  seized  him.  .  .  .  What  was  the  meaning  of  It? 
And  where  was  he? 

Rosemary?  The  dark,  the  damp,  the  emptiness,  the  musty 
smell,  the  stony  silence,  the  cold  flesh,  the  absence  of  any  human 
sense  or  touch,  above  all,  the  creeping,  crawling,  tickling  feet. 
.  .  .  What  did  it  all  mean?  What  could  it  mean? 

Unable  to  bear  it  longer,  he  sprang  up,  perspiring  with  horror, 
clutching  at  himself,  and  shouting. 

Bright  sunlight  fell  upon  the  floor  of  the  barn.  On  either  side 
of  him  his  two  friends  lay  sleeping.  Over  their  prostrate  figures 
and  across  their  faces  black-beetles  swarmed. 


The  farmhouse  by  noonday  light  proved  to  be  a  wild,  ram- 
shackle, place,  overrun  with  poultry,  overgrown  with  weeds.    Evf- 


306  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

dently  it  had  not  been  tended  for  years.  Not  less  queer  an3 
untidy  and  dishevelled-looking  were  the  tenants,  a  couple  of  frowsy 
old  women  and  slatternly  girls,  together  with  a  smaller  and  numer- 
ous family.  Then  men  folk  were  away  at  the  front,  the  women 
quarrelled  with  shrieks  and  abuse  like  London  street-cats.  But  the 
setting  of  the  place  made  up  for  its  squalidity,  a  richly-wooded 
hilly  country,  and  a  village  of  thatched  and  creepered  cottages 
standing  in  gardens  that  were  aglow  with  stocks,  sweet  peas  and 
rambler  roses.  The  day  turned  out  to  be  one  of  torrid  heat, 
so  that  nobody  wandered  far.  Everyone  lay  and  dozed  or  read. 

At  dawn  of  the  following  morning  the  battalion  marched  again 
through  clinging  mists  which  by  eight  o'clock  had  melted  into 
scorching  sunshine.  On  every  hand  tossed  the  glory  of  the  harvest 
— the  corn  cut  and  standing  in  sheaves  on  the  hillsides  which  sloped 
steeply  down  to  the  valleys  from  wooded  summits.  Among  the 
corn-stocks  flitted  flocks  of  finches,  sparrows,  and  linnets;  by  the 
roadside,  yellow-hammers  and  crickets  vied  with  each  other  in 
beating  out  an  endlessly  monotonous  heat-song.  Overhead,  a  sky 
of  unclouded  blue;  all  the  blue  and  gold  and  greenery  of  the 
year  seemed  concentrated  in  these  August  days. 

Of  course,  the  roads  were  ankle-deep  in  white  dust;  of  course, 
the  distances  were  often  very  long  and  straight,  and  there  was 
not  always  shade  at  the  halts.  Already  Ypres  was  forgotten  while 
yet  their  goal  still  seemed  far  away  and  the  war  yet  farther,  so 
that  shouting  and  singing  ruled  and  all  marched  well  to  the  cheer- 
ful strains  of  drum  and  fife.  The  villages,  lying  deep  down  in 
the  troughs  of  the  valleys,  looked  utterly  asleep.  The  inevitable 
dog  slept,  head  on  paws,  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  the  inevitable 
cat  basked  on  a  sunny  window-sill  or  wall ;  at  their  cottage  doors, 
old  women,  with  wrinkled  yellow  faces  peering  out  of  white  linen 
sun-bonnets,  sat  sewing.  Somewhere,  as  they  passed,  a  blacksmith 
could  be  heard  beating  out  the  sultry  minutes  on  his  anvil.  (If 
there  was  one  sound  that  could  call  up  to  Adrian's  mind  Stane 
DeverilPs  many-tinted  village  street,  it  was  that!)  Few,  however, 
troubled  to  come  to  the  roadside  to  see  the  soldiers  pass;  so  many 


THE  ROAD  307 

thousands  must  have  tramped  that  dusty  way  since  the  Battle  of 
the  Somme  began. 

And  at  the  end  of  the  march — Colonel  Steele. 

There  he  stood  as  they  marched  in,  beside  the  officers'  baggage 
which,  having  been  sent  on  in  advance,  lay,  like  a  mountain  after 
a  volcanic  eruption,  by  the  roadside.  Stout  Major  Brough,  the 
second-in-command,  who  always  seemed  a  bit  short  of  a  job  and 
therefore  looked  for  a  chance  of  making  trouble,  was  already 
poking  his  nose  into  it. 

Everybody  knew  what  to  expect  now — the  word  "kitstrafe" 
went  round.  Only  the  worst  remained  to  be  seen — on  the  already 
hottest  day  in  the  year,  too!  There  were  black  looks  and  much 
under-breath  swearing. 

"Who  does  that  extraordinary-looking  article  belong  to?"  The 
Commanding  Officer  pointed  to  an  immense  shapeless  green  bundle 
disfigured  by  strings  and  straps. 

"Cornwallis,  sir."  Captain  and  Adjutant  Langley  was  lounging 
elegantly  against  the  transport  wagon. 

"Cornwallis!" 

"Sir!" 

"What  do  you  usually  carry  in  your  valise?" 

"Nothing — at  least — just  the  ordinary,  sir." 

"Open  it." 

The  untidy  bundle  was  dragged  asunder  and  the  unhappy  Corn- 
wallis' possessions  exposed  to  view. 

"What  do  you  want  with  a  drawing-room  cushion,  Cornwallis? 
Think  you've  come  out  to  a  picnic  or  what?  Finished  with  that 
in  England,  y'know."  (Titters  from  the  young  ensigns  at  the 
back.)  "Photographs?  Good  heavens — how  long  have  you  had 
all  these?  Books!  Poetry,  if  you  please!  The  feller's  a  walking 
library!  Put  'em  all  on  the  scrap-heap.  I  never  saw  such  a  chap. 
What  d'you  think  you're  doing  here,  my  good  boy — reading  party 
or  something?"  (Renewed  titters.)  "A  collapsible  bath,  a  knitted 
scarf — it's  summer,  y'know — a  patent  washhandstand,  a  collapsible 
bed.  .  .  .  God  bless  my  soul!  Is  there  a  war  on,  anybody? 


308  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Make  a  scrap  heap  of  the  lot!  We  must  make  an  example  o! 
this  young  gentleman,  Brough!" 

The  varied  collection  of  articles  was  thrown  together  like  relics 
at  a  jumble  sale. 

"Please,  sir,  the  scarf " 

It  was  the  first  time  Cornwallis  had  ever  attempted  to  remon- 
strate with  his  Commanding  Officer.  There  was  a  note  of  agony 
in  his  voice  now.  Interest  quickened  among  the  bystanders. 

"Well,  what  about  the  scarf?  It's  the  least  necessary  of  the 
lot." 

"Please,  sir — my  sister " 

Everybody  tittered.  One  had  a  right  to,  after  all.  "Art" — 
wasn't  he  a  standing  joke?  "Art's"  face  wore  a  look  of  profound 
misery. 

"I  can't  help  that.  You  must  read  your  orders.  Next  lot, 
Brough!" 

Eric  spoke. 

"He  wants  to  keep  it,  sir,  because  his  sister  made  it  for  him. 
Do  you  really  see  much  harm  in  that?  It  doesn't  weigh  more 
than  a  few  ounces." 

"That's  not  the  point,  Eric."  But  Colonel  Steele's  voice  per- 
ceptibly modified.  Eric  had  a  quiet,  undeniable  manner  for  certain 
occasions.  Colonel  Steele  knew  it.  "The  point  is  it's  an  order. 
However — he's  your  boy.  Do  as  you  think  best  about  the  scarf. 
But  the  other  things  have  got  to  go — d'you  hear,  Cornwallis?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  as  you  apparently  haven't  read  your  orders  or  at  any 
rate  taken  the  trouble  to  obey  them,  you  can  take  breakfast  roll-call 
parade  for  the  remainder  of  this  week.  I  must  make  an  example 
of  somebody." 

"I'll  see  him,  sir,"  snapped  Langley,  clicking  his  heels. 

"That'll  do.  I  won't  look  at  any  more  to-day.  Come  along, 
Brough!" 

The  unhappy  culprit  had  crept  away  as  unobtrusively  as  he  was 
allowed  to. 

Entering  the  tent  they  were  to  share  a  few  minutes  later,  Adrian 


THE  ROAD  309 

found  him  sitting  on  his  wire-bed,  fumbling  the  offending  scarf 
with  his  spectacles  tilted  at  an  unusual  angle  half-way  down  his 
nose.  His  first  impulse  was  to  laugh.  There  were  tears  in  Corn- 
wallis's  eyes  and  a  look  of  pain  on  his  face.  His  senior's  heart 
went  out  to  one  who  could  be  so  easily  wounded,  so  bitterly  macfe 
to  suffer  by  what  everybody  else  regarded  as  a  huge  joke. 

"You  mustn't  mind,  Arthur,"  he  said.  "Steele  doesn't  really 
mean  it.  It's  his  blundering,  stupid,  offensive  way  of  doing  things." 

"Oh,  it's  not  Steele  I  mind,"  Cornwallis  protested.  "It's— 
this  little  thing  being  made  fun  of  in  front  of  everybody.  It's 
my  books  and  photographs.  Oh  God!  Adrian,"  he  suddenly  burst 
out  with  an  awkward  kind  of  gulp,  "how  shall  I  get  through 
with  the  thing?  How  shall  I  ever  get  through  it  all?" 

He  sat  with  his  untidy  head  between  his  hands  and  Adrian 
realised  in  a  degree  that  he  had  never  suspected  the  misery,  the 
abhorrence  that  lay  behind  the  youth's  quiet  and  shrinking  exterior 
— just  what  war  meant  to  a  nature  like  his.  For  Cornwallis  had 
been  an  unobtrusive — except  when  his  mistakes  on  parade  were 
too  glaring — and  always  unselfish  shadow  at  the  back  of  the  bat- 
talion. "Poor  old  Art!"  people  said,  recognising  him  as  a  "trier" — 
though  a  "hopeless"  one;  but  how  they  must  have  hurt!  Even 
Eric's  attitude,  though  always  patient  and  forbearing,  was  one  of 
kindly  ridicule.  (How  could  it  be  otherwise  towards  a  man 
who  spent  half  his  time  reading  poetry?)  Adrian  thought  of  the 
months  at  Laventie  and  at  Ypres,  of  the  uncounted  "cursings" 
his  friend  had  received  from  his  Commanding  Officer,  from  Brough, 
from  Langley — above  all,  of  the  blood-red  future  as  he  knew  it 
presented  itself  to  this  sensitive  mind. 

They  took  a  walk  together  in  the  evening  through  golden  fields 
in  which  peasants,  chiefly  women,  were  loading  the  abundant  corn. 


§5 

The  camp  was  deep-hidden  in  one  of  those  large  oak-wood^ 
which  abound  thereabouts.  Situated  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  it  was 
shady  and  cool,  and,  although  there  were  wooden  huts  sufficient 


3io  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

to  accommodate  all,  everybody  preferred  to  sleep  out  of  doors 
during  the  brilliant  weather.  Not  many  hours  had  been  spent 
here  before  there  came  the  first  reminder  of  war  since  leaving 
Ypres.  A  German  aeroplane,  white  and  silvery  in  the  sunshine, 
was  observed  travelling  rapidly  and  very  high  up,  pursued  across 
the  blue  expanse  of  sky  by  three  or  four  British  planes.  That 
night  the  thunder  of  the  guns  seemed  to  come  very  close,  and 
from  the  eastern  edge  of  the  wood  a  great  shimmering  could  be 
seen  in  the  southern  sky. 

In  other  respects,  these  last  days,  quietly  spent  amid  the  rich 
peace  of  early  autumn  behind  the  front,  were,  for  the  common 
soldiery,  a  time  of  enjoyment.  All  knew  that  the  storm  was  at 
hand  and  in  their  hearts  pondered  deeply  about  the  future.  But 
none  spoke  of  it,  and  none  gave  way  to  forebodings  which  some- 
times when  the  roll  and  thunder  of  the  guns  made  sleep  almost 
impossible,  and  their  flickering  lit  up  the  whole  night  sky,  came 
very  near.  No  doubt  there  were  moments  of  shrinking,  of  reflec- 
tion, of  dread,  especially  among  the  younger  men.  These,  again, 
simply  could  not  visualise  the  proximity  of  fearful  things.  Away 
out  there  beyond  the  eastern  horizon  the  storm  muttered ;  but  here 
were  peace,  sunshine,  rest. 

The  mellowed  quality  of  that  resplendent  autumn  entered  men's 
souls.  And  the  plains  of  Picardy  are  very  fair  at  harvest  time. 
There  were  parades,  marches,  practice-attacks,  drill,  physical  drill, 
bayonet-fighting,  field  schemes  in  the  early  morning.  It  was  like 
a  horse  being  trained  for  a  race  or  a  boxer  for  a  glove-fight,  every 
exercise  being  carefully  calculated  and  apportioned  against  the 
ultimate  day  of  reckoning  and  of  trial.  But  by  noon  all  parades 
were  finished,  and  the  soldiers  lay  about  in  their  shady  wood 
through  the  hot  afternoons,  dozing  or  reading,  while  when  evening 
came  they  took  country  walks,  assisted  the  peasants  in  the  harvest 
fields,  or  got  up  a  game  of  football. 

One  day,  Eric  had  the  whole  company  photographed;  and  be- 
neath the  laughter  and  "ragging,"  everybody  realised  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  occasion.  Another  day  a  party  of  Staff  Officers 
came  unexpectedly  round  the  camp,  resplendent  in  gold  lace,  red 


THE  ROAD  311 

caps,  and  blue  or  red-and-white  armlets.  The  guard  turned  out — 
one  face  seemed  especially  familiar.  All  stood  to  attention  and 
saluted,  the  guard  presenting  arms. 

It  was  the  King.  And  across  the  immeasurable  gulf  of  two 
years  there  sprang  to  Adrian's  vision  a  burning  afternoon  of  mid- 
June,  a  setting  of  dark  green  pinewoods  and  pale  green  turf,  and 
the  shouts  and  cries,  the  agglomerated  roar  of  a  race-course 
crowd.  .  .  . 

The  mood  of  these  latter  days  was  not  lost  upon  him.  They 
were  very  near  to  Nature  there  among  the  oaks.  And  in  the 
heat  of  the  slumbering  afternoons,  with  sunbeams  dappling  through 
nut-fronds  upon  the  mossy  floor,  he  would  lie  dozing  on  his  wire 
bed,  listening  to  the  laughing  cry  and  mysterious  "tap-tap"  of  a 
green  woodpecker  at  work,  the  shriek  of  a  jay  in  alarm,  or  thfe 
rich  deep  "roo-coo-coo"  of  a  wood  pigeon's  evening  notes.  It  was 
such  an  experience  as  comes  back  to  men  in  after  years  when  the 
crudity  and  tragedy  of  a  thing  are  forgotten,  as  a  sad  and  precious 
recollection. 

Nor  was  there  lost  upon  Adrian  an  echo  of  the  previous  autumn 
— an  echo  ghostly  and  terrible  as  a  voice  from  the  dead  past,  yet 
softened  already  by  suffering  and  time,  cherished  in  the  solitude 
of  his  heart.  Nor  yet  in  his  own  regard  alone  was  this  season 
memorable.  These  days  revealed  to  him  a  new  meaning  in 
existence,  together  with  a  kind  of  quiet  and  steadfast  happiness 
without  for  one  moment  shaking  his  assured  conviction  of  impend- 
ing death.  A  new  philosophy  came  to  him,  too,  as  he  watched 
others  drink  their  fill  of  joy  and  peace,  living  to  the  full  their 
little  hour. 

By  the  side  of  these,  indeed — the  selfish  storm  of  his  earlier  grief 
now  past — he  felt  unworthy  and  ashamed. 

But  as  the  days  slid  by  and  the  sombre  muttering  of  the  guns 
grew  more  threatening — increasing  to  paeons  of  thunder  every 
morning  just  before  dawn — all  seemed  drawn  together  in  a  truer 
and  a  deeper  comradeship.  Officers  and  men  alike  endeavoured  to 
show  by  a  greater  kindliness,  by  an  unobtrusive,  almost  diffident 


3i2  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

exchange  of  goodwill,  the  sense  that  animated  each,  the  sense  of 
being  travellers  along  a  common  road  towards  a  common  goal. 

Even  Colonel  Steele,  Major  Brough  and  Captain  Langley — 
who  constituted  an  exclusive  society  of  their  own  known  as  "head- 
quarters"— seemed  not  to  be  entirely  unaware  of  this  atmosphere. 
It  is  true,  they  drank  more  and  more,  sat  up  later  and  later, 
making  the  night  ring  with  their  conviviality — so  that  the  men 
seeking  sleep  in  their  wooden  huts  called  down  every  imprecation 
upon  them — and  indulged  in  ever  greater  orgies  of  obscenity  in 
conversation  and  caricature.  But  the  former  perpetual  "strafings" 
unaccountably  ceased. 

Adrian  and  Eric  never  spoke  of  Rosemary,  and  only  once  did 
Eric  allude  to  the  subject  which  Adrian  knew  lay  nearest  his 
heart.  It  was  on  the  last  of  their  rides  to  the  beautiful  forest  and 
chateau  of  Lucheux.  Cornwallis  was  not  with  them.  Adrian 
had  gone  to  a  farmhouse  to  ask  for  a  glass  of  milk  or  cider,  while 
Eric  watered  the  horses.  When  the  former  returned,  he  found 
his  friend  sitting  beside  the  stream,  looking  down  at  something 
he  held  in  his  hand.  Coming  up  behind  he  perceived  that  this 
was  a  cigarette-case,  in  which  reposed  a  snapshot  of  Faith. 

That  concentrated  attitude,  that  unexpected  discovery,  revealed 
Eric's  inner  life — thoughts  which  he  was  too  simple  to  dissemble 
now,  or  to  be  in  any  way  self-conscious  about. 

"Faith,  you  see?" 

Eric  smiled. 

After  all,  was  it  not  with  this  same  woman  that  both  corre- 
sponded— daily  in  the  case  of  the  one,  weekly  in  that  of  the  other? 
Faithful  she  was  in  a  different  way  to  each. 

Adrian  said: 

"Yes.  It's  good.  I  got  a  letter  from  her  yesterday.  I  gather — 
things  are  not  easy." 

He  had  gathered,  in  fact,  that  Lord  Arden  showed  no  disposi- 
tion whatsoever  to  sanction  the  marriage  of  his  daughter  while  the 
war  lasted. 

"I  sometimes  think  ...  it  may  never  come  off." 

Eric  snapped  the  lid  of  his  cigarette-case,  and  put  it  back  in 


THE  ROAD  313 

his  pocket.    After  which  he  was  again  his  bland,  smiling,  seldom- 
serious  self. 

§6 

One  sultry  afternoon  when  everybody  lay  dozing  within  the 
grateful  shade  of  the  home  wood — Cornwallis  was  correcting  a 
poem  he  had  written  on  a  writing-pad — a  battalion  orderly  went 
from  company  to  company. 

"The  battalion  will  move  at  once." 

All  knew  what  it  meant.  Over,  the  day-dreams  and  the  long 
pleasant  rides,  over,  the  cool,  quiet  dusks  and  fresh  early  mornings, 
over,  the  mellow  beauty  of  the  Picardy  harvest.  And  the  end 
of  the  long  road  at  last. 

There  were  no  grumblings  or  cursings,  no  futile  regrets.  Every 
man  had  had  his  fill  of  peace  and  sunshine — God  had  been  good — 
and  now  every  man  felt  fit  to  face  whatever  lay  before  him.  So 
when  the  moment  came,  they  loaded  their  packs,  shouldered  their 
rifles,  and  tramped  away,  laughing  and  singing,  along  the  dusty 
highways  of  France  into  the  autumn  haze. 


CHAPTER  IX 
A    Battlefield 

s> 

THEY  perished. 

When  the  roll  came  to  be  called  at  a  little  village  in  the  valley 
of  the  Ancre,  barely  one-fourth  of  those  who  had  marched  into 
action  ninety-six  hours  before  answered  to  it. 

Colonel  Steele  fell  gloriously.  From  a  shell-hole  in  the  midst 
of  the  battlefield,  though  mortally  wounded,  he  directed  the  sway- 
ing fortunes  of  his  battalion  while  consciousness  remained,  thus 
at  the  last  earning  the  admiration  of  the  officers  and  men  who 
had  hated  him.  His  second-in-command,  Major  Brough,  had 
fallen  an  unexpected  victim  to  illness  and,  without  taking  part  in 
the  action,  went  home.  The  young  adjutant,  Langley,  coming 
up  with  all  speed  from  reserve  was  fatally  struck  down.  Alston, 
grievously  wounded,  lay  a  prisoner  in  German  hands.  The  two 
other  company-commanders,  Vivian  and  Darell,  supported  by  the 
remnants  of  their  men,  were  last  seen  fighting  at  the  bayonet's 
point,  a  grey  sea  of  Germans  in  full  counter-attack  closing  round. 
The  subalterns  and  ensigns  fared  no  better  on  that  great  and 
terrible  day.  But  Cornwallis  went  happily — oh!  how  happily — 
home  to  England  with  a  bullet  in  arm  and  thigh. 

Of  the  rank  and  file,  the  non-commissioned  officers  and  private 
soldiers,  the  majority  of  those  not  accounted  for  were  found  to 
have  attained  their  ultimate  rest. 

Out  of  the  fight  which  for  twenty-four  hours  swayed  up  and 
down  the  green-brown,  shell-scarred  slopes  of  Ginchy,  Morval  and 
Lesboeufs  until  at  length  the  victory  was  won — out  of  the  fight 


A  BATTLEFIELD  315 

came   Captain   Sinclair,    smiling,    dirty,    tired,   limping  .  .  .  and 
alone. 


§   2 

Night  brooded  over  the  battlefield.  It  was  the  hour  for  the 
burial  of  the  dead. 

To  Lieutenant  Sir  Adrian  Knoyle — who,  as  it  happened,  had 
been  detailed  to  remain  among  the  officers  in  reserve — befell  this 
duty. 

A  cold  rain  drove  in  gusts.  A  wet  wind  blew.  Gloom  and 
darkness  lay  over  all.  Gloom  and  darkness  reigned  in  his  heart. 
Bitterness  strangled  it. 

They  lay  around — scores  of  them,  a  hundred,  three — four  hun- 
dred. Impenetrable  blackness  hid  them.  But  when  the  star-lights 
went  up  they  could  be  seen  as  men  sleeping — vague  forms  outlined 
upon  the  ridge  of  a  trench,  upon  the  lip  of  a  shell-hole. 

All  shapes,  all  attitudes,  all  positions.  Some  on  the  back,  hands 
to  thigh,  heels  together,  gazing  upwards;  some  on  the  side  and 
some  curled  up  as  though  enjoying  pleasant  dreams;  some  flat  on 
face,  arms  and  legs  outspread ;  some  with  head  resting  on  arm 
or  pack  and  one  knee  raised.  Some  whole ;  some  twisted,  bent  up, 
in  halves  or  shreds;  some  with  nails  dug  deep  into  mud  and  weird 
contorted  faces;  some  rigid,  some  stiffening  by  degrees,  and  some 
quite  limp  and  loose.  Some  in  couples  clasped  like  children  who 
crouch  together  from  sudden  fear ;  some  lying  across  one  another — 
carelessly.  Some  drunk  with  rum  in  death.  .  .  .  Germans,  too, 
Germans — very  much  like  the  rest.  And  once,  once  only,  a  grey 
and  a  khaki  figure  locked  on  each  other's  bayonets. 

He  touched  them  at  times — stumbled  over  them.  Picking  his 
way  among  the  shell-holes,  he  felt  the  soft,  unnatural  flesh,  the 
hair,  rough,  draggled  and  wet,  without  life,  coagulated;  the  body 
stiff,  unyielding,  unresponsive — empty. 

Mingled  with  the  soil,  torn  from  their  bodies — their  letters, 
their  pipes,  their  photographs  of  women,  their  tobacco-pouches, 
their  lockets  of  women's  hair,  all  the  poor  paltry  things  they  valued 


3i6  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

once — tied  up  w^th  the  pay-book,  hung  around  the  neck,  tied  to 
the  string  of  the  metal  disc. 

The  rain  drove  in  gusts.  How  the  wind  keened!  There  was 
an  occasional  rifle-shot.  Figures  moved  in  the  gloom. 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Kamerad !     Burial-party !" 

They,  too — creeping  like  jackals  among  the  slain! 

Earth  upon  earth.  Dust  back  to  dust.  Into  the  shell-hole,  fling 
them.  Cover  them  up! 

Darkness  and  gloom.  Gloom  and  darkness  in  the  heart.  Bitter- 
ness strangling  it. 

Clink  of  the  spades. 

"Come  on!  Heave  in  this  one!  Heavy,  ain't  he?  .  .  .  Cover 
him  up!" 

§3 

Over  that  dread  scene,  over  that  waste  of  shell-holes,  of  greenish 
water,  of  scarred  and  upchurned  earth,  broken  trenches  and 
mangled  wire,  all  night  long,  it  seemed  to  Adrian  Knoyle,  a  vague 
familiar  figure  stood.  Through  the  paling  gloom  and  the  swish 
of  the  rain,  through  the  shrill  of  the  wind  and  its  driving  gusts, 
through  the  livelong  night,  he  saw  it  standing  there — a  sombre 
stooping  form  with  hands  folded  and  head  bent  as  one  pondering. 

And  when  the  star-lights  went  up,  they  revealed  the  white  and 
mirrored  room.  And  the  woman  of  the  dazzling  tiara  and  the 
reddish-golden  hair  smiled.  And  the  violins  shivered  out  Humoreske 
while  dancers  spun  and  whirled. 


END  OF  PART  THE  THIRD. 


PART  THE  FOURTH: 
DAWN 


A nd  the  nations  were  angry,  and  thy  wrath  is  come, 
and  the  time  of  the  dead,  that  they  should  be  judged, 
and  that  thou  shouldest  give  reward  unto  thy  servants 
the  prophets,  and  to  the  saints,  and  them  that  fear  thy 
name,  small  and  great;  and  shouldest  destroy  them 
which  destroy  the  earth. 

REVELATION  XI,  18. 


CHAPTER  I 
Another  Winter  Passes 


THE  part  that  it  had  so  greatly  played  in  the  later  stages  of  the 
Battle  of  the  Somme,  left  the  Division  to  which  Adrian  Knoyle 
and  Eric  Sinclair  belonged  little  more  than  a  skeleton,  and  for 
the  time  being  a  legend.  Out  of  a  fighting  strength  of  six  thousand 
bayonets,  barely  two  thousand  remained.  Before  October  —  so  soon 
as  was  practicable  indeed  —  it  was  withdrawn  from  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  battlefield  into  one  of  those  re-fitting  and  training 
areas  which  had  been  established  west  of  Amiens,  there  to  await 
reinforcements  and  equipment.  Captain  Sinclair  remained  in  com- 
mand of  the  relics  of  the  battalion  he  had  brought  out  of  action, 
all  survivors  having  commented  upon  his  distinguished  conduct  in 
the  engagement. 

In  due  time  the  reinforcements  arrived  and  it  was  practically 
a  new  battalion  that  early  in  the  month  of  November  moved  up 
to  trenches  on  the  northern  edge  of  the  Somme  battlefield,  there, 
it  was  rumoured,  to  pass  the  winter.  The  Colonel  was  new,  the 
officers  were  new  —  with  the  exceptions  of  Eric,  Adrian  and  one 
or  two  others  who  had  been  left  in  reserve  —  the  non-commissioned 
officers  and  men  were  new,  and  the  spirit  of  the  battalion  was  new. 

The  Commanding-Officer,  Lieutenant-Colonel  Forsyth,  was  pre- 
ceded by  a  good  reputation.  He  had  been  a  company-commander 
in  the  battalion  on  its  initial  arrival  in  France  and  had  been 
dangerously  wounded  at  the  First  Battle  of  Ypres.  He  was  a  tall, 
quiet  fair-haired  and  blue-eyed  man  of  a  professional  military  type. 
Adrian  took  an  immediate  liking  to  him.  He  had  a  deliberate 
efficient  way  with  him,  and  a  passion  for  fairness  among  officers 


320  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

and  men  alike.  At  the  same  time  he  quickly  showed  he  would 
stand  no  laxity.  He  brought  with  him  an  adjutant  called  Tritton, 
who  also  acted  as  second-in-command.  The  three  new  company- 
commanders,  Hamilton,  Rice  and  Mead,  were  all  young  regular 
soldiers  who  had  been  wounded  early  in  the  war  and  had  attained 
unexpectedly  rapid  promotion.  Burns  and  Fotheringay  were  the 
new-comers  to  the  Left  Flank  company. 

There  could  be  little  complaint  about  the  trenches  which  were 
permanently  taken  over  in  October.  Here  in  the  earliest  Somme 
attacks  the  British  had  been  beaten  back  with  heavy  loss;  here,  in 
consequence,  were  found  old  elaborate  permanent  field-fortifications 
with  vast  underground  "dug-outs,"  deep  trenches,  immense  fields 
of  wire — part-German,  part-English — and  an  easy  approach  by 
long  communication-trenches  to  the  front  line.  The  mud,  it  is 
true,  became  increasingly  cruel  as  winter  advanced;  but  was  not 
this  the  case  everywhere  ?  And  when  they  came  out  of  the  trenches, 
it  was  to  a  village  in  a  not  unpleasant  country  they  repaired,  one 
at  all  events  little  scarred  by  war. 

On  the  whole  everybody  was  satisfied.  Those  who  had  taken 
an  earlier  part  in  the  campaign  compared  the  situation  favourably 
with  the  discomforts  of  previous  winters;  those  who  had  not  were 
agreeably  surprised.  With  the  exception  of  occasional  raids  and  a 
spasmodic  artillery  activity  on  both  sides,  the  enemy  remained 
quiet.  It  was  as  though  after  the  terrible  experiences  of  the  sum- 
mer and  autumn,  friend  and  enemy  alike  had  resolved  to  settle 
down — in  so  far  as  the  Higher  Commands  allowed — to  "peace 
warfare." 


§   2 

To  Adrian,  the  tragedy  of  the  Somme,  or  rather  the  long 
pilgrimage  which  preceded  it,  brought  a  mental  reaction  in  the 
direction  of  sanity:  following  upon  the  abyss  of  Ypres,  these  ex- 
periences had  perhaps  exhausted  his  capacity  for  emotional  feeling 
and  experience. 

He  was,  however,  left  reaching  out  for  anything  which  might 


ANOTHER  WINTER  PASSES  321 

re-establish  moral  and  mental  balance,  which  might  pull  or  hold 
him  together.  Sanity,  cogency,  power  of  reasoned  reflection  had 
returned,  but  not  feeling,  and  in  the  months  that  followed  he 
lived  through  a  monotone,  merely  reasoning,  knowing,  observing — 
a  monotone  from  which  three  aspirations,  significances,  call  them 
what  you  will,  stood  out  like  hills  in  the  dead  plain. 

The  dominating  influence  upon  him  at  this  period  was  Eric 
Sinclair. 

In  Knoyle  there  existed  a  strain  of  aspiration,  an  idealism,  a 
leaning  and  a  longing  toward  some  ultimate  better  thing  which 
baffled  his  own  introspection,  and  which  Lady  Knoyle  alone,  per- 
haps, had  divined  and  understood.  It  was  the  thing  his  father  had 
never  understood.  It  was  the  thing  Rosemary  Meynell  had  never 
understood.  It  was  the  thing  Eric  conjectured  only  as  something 
beyond  his  knowledge.  It  was  the  thing  Gina  Maryon  might  have 
understood  had  he  allowed  her  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  it.  It  was 
the  thing  which  in  rough  contact  with  the  world  had  remained 
suppressed  and  concealed,  a  locked  secret,  a  treasure  of  the  heart 
rather  than  of  the  mind. 

And  it  was  this  quality,  no  doubt,  this  capacity  for  emotional 
experience  which  had  reacted  upon  him  so  disastrously,  which  had 
plunged  him  so  far  downward  after  his  love's  betrayal.  All  this 
hidden  force  in  him  had  been  defeated,  thrown  back  in  confusion 
upon  itself,  for  the  time  being  annihilated.  Never,  perhaps,  in  the 
same  degree,  with  the  same  original  intensity  could  he  experience 
again.  But  since  consummation  had  been  denied  that  other  wooing 
to  which  he  had  turned  in  his  extremity,  was  it  surprising  if  this, 
the  vitalest  thing  in  him,  arose  triumphant? 

So  it  was  to  Eric  that  he  now  turned — anxiously — leaning  upon 
him  as  against  a  pillar  of  steel,  visualising  in  him  something  higher 
and  stronger  than  himself. 

Next  to  Eric,  and  next  to  him  not  in  degree  but  in  point  of 
actuality,  were  the  Three  Hills;  and  bound  up  with  these  his 
mother.  To  that  mother  he  had  not  been  overconsiderate ;  to 
Stane  he  had  given  little  enough  thought  during  the  years  of  illu- 
sion. Yet  these  came  recurringly  to  him  in  his  need,  as  two  con- 


322  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

stant  reassuring  facts.  His  mother's  letters  reached  him  twice 
weekly;  letters  full  of  sympathy  and  of  encouragement,  full,  too, 
of  a  certain  native  charm  that  hovered  between  humour  and  tears. 
After  all  she  knew  him,  though  how  little  of  confidence  in  the 
living  thought  had  passed  between  them!  Daily  almost — and 
nightly — were  with  him  rapt  visions  of  Stane,  an  aching  for  that 
calm  and  remote  spirit,  that  sanctity  of  association,  that  intimacy 
of  feeling  and  earliest  recollection,  which  linked  him  with  the 
far-away  spot.  It  was  an  altogether  more  than  physical  intimacy. 
The  autumn  road  to  the  Somme  had  illuminated  this  train  of 
thought.  Sometimes  the  hills  were  his  companions ;  sometimes  the 
wind-swept  silence  of  their  summits,  the  cries  of  kestrel  and  plover, 
the  autumn  wild  flowers,  the  mounds  and  barrows  of  the  long- 
vanished  race,  the  Roman  dykes,  and  Early  British  encampments 
so  immense  in  their  obscurity;  sometimes  the  sunset  view  of  the 
vale  and  the  looking-down  upon  his  own  creepered  and  lichened 
home — the  creepers  turning  red  and  saffron  upon  the  Portland 
stone — its  cedared  lawns,  its  sunlit  terrace,  its  red-walled  garden, 
its  park  and  copses,  its  green  rushy  bed  under  the  Three  Hills; 
sometimes  the  thatched  farms,  the  clover-studded  fields  where 
cattle  grazed,  the  hedged  lanes  and  villages  half-buried  in  woodland 
and  orchard.  Dawn  and  dusk  and  the  bright  noonday,  sunlight 
and  shadow,  autumn,  winter,  summer;  and  then  the  blossoming 
spring. 

The  third  influence  and  the  human  embodiment  of  his  renewed 
hold  on  things  was  Faith  Daventry.  Her  letters  came  week  by 
week,  regularly,  unfailingly.  She  was — Faith:  somebody  asso- 
ciated with  Eric,  the  being  whom  Eric's  lively  and  careless  fancy 
had  selected;  the  being  whom  Eric's  fastidiousness  and  self-suf- 
ficient personality  had  chosen  for  its  own ;  therefore  to  be  cherished. 
Yet  she  was  more  than  this  to  Adrian.  How  often — as  he  read 
her  letters— he  thought  of  the  frank  and  steadfast  look,  friendly 
and  sympathetic,  of  Arden  days! 

They  contained  news,  too,  these  letters.  They  told  of  the 
labours  of  the  hospital,  of  how  the  Voluntary  Aid  Workers  per- 
sistently did  these  things  which  ought  not  to  be  done,  and  left 


ANOTHER  WINTER  PASSES  323 

undone  those  things  which  ought  to  have  been  done;  of  her  own 
comic  earlier  mistakes  as  sub-commandant  in  writing  out  the  re- 
ports; of  everything,   from  the  peculiarities  of  the  patients,   the 
trials  of  the  cook  (who  could  or  did  not  cook)  and  the  problems 
of  the  wardrobe  and  the  linen  cupboard,  to  the  intricacies  of  the 
household  books,  and  how  she  tired  of  the  ' 'whole  business,"  yet 
still  rather  liked  it.     She  told  of  her  visits  to  London,  where  "a 
violent  season  is  in  progress";  of  dances  which  did  not  attract  her; 
of  "numerous  new  attractive  little  minxes"  who  had  appeared  on 
the   scene;   how   chaperons  were   dispensed   with,   indeed   utterly 
despised;  how  the  regime  of  "sandwiches  to  a  gramophone"  which 
set  the  ball  rolling  had  quickly  given  place  to  considerable  affairs 
in  big  houses,  with  all  complete  except  champagne;  how  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen  went  out  "joy-riding"  in  the  small  hours — 
"a  thing  they  couldn't  do  in  our  day"  (it  had  come  to  that  with 
her!) ;  and  how  fashionable  London  was  getting  a  bit  bored  with 
the  war,  which,  after  all,  had  ceased  to  be  either  novel  or  exciting. 
She  told  of  visits  to  Cyril  Orde  who  was  "just  the  same,"  but 
wheeled  about  in  a  chair,  still  tended  by  the  faithful  Miss  Ingleby, 
and  having  periodical  operations;  and  how  he  never  would  be 
mucK  better  or  much  worse.     She  mentioned  what  she  chanced  to 
have  heard  of  the  Freemans,  and  how  Lady  F.  was  more  than 
ever  an  "indefatigable  war-worker,"  opening  bazaars  and  patron- 
ising the  families  of  absent  soldiers,  while  Sir  Walter,   it  was 
rumoured,  had  held  a  kind  of  pistol  at  the  head  of  the  Govern- 
ment, signifying  his  right  to  a  peerage  if  he  couldn't  retain  a  port- 
folio.    Mr.   Heathcote  she  mentioned,  too;  Mr.  Heathcote  who 
had  got  "war-work,"  but  did  it  mostly  at  the  Carlton  Club.     Of 
her  father  she  wrote — "that  lion-hearted  man" — who  was   still 
striving,  threatening,  cajoling,  beseeching  all  ranks  and  grades  from 
his  own  Commanding  Officer  to  the  Army  Council  itself — "using 
his  influence,"  as  he  expressed  it — to  be  sent  to  the  Front;  and  of 
how,  knowing  him  as  she  did,  she  felt  he  would  probably  succeed 
if  the  war  went  on  another  twelvemonth — only,  she  hoped,  not  in 
a  combatant  capacity:    "for,"  said  she,  "he  aspires  to  command  a 
battalion." 


324  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

§3 

In  November,  Eric  went  on  a  leave  long  overdue.  He  returned 
at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  with  items  of  intelligence  of  the  first 
interest. 

He  had  spent  all  but  three  days  of  his  sojourn  at  Arden.  The 
matter  of  his  marriage  had  been  conclusively  and  definitively  fixed. 
It  was  to  take  place  on  his  next  leave — whenever  that  might  be. 
How  had  the  miracle  been  worked?  Faith  herself  by  an  act  of 
determined  independence  had  worked  it. 

"I  think  she  saw  I  was  getting  a  bit  fed  up,"  said  Eric.  "I  think 
she's  getting  fed  up  with  the  uncertainty  of  it  and  the  incessant 
grind  of  that  infernal  hospital  herself.  Anyway  one  day  she  said, 
all  of  a  sudden,  'I  want  to  be  able  to  have  a  home  for  you  when 
you  come  back  on  leave.  I  don't  care  about  mixing  you  up  with 
the  medicines  and  the  dressings  and  the  patients  and  all  that. 
Come  on,  let's  go  and  settle  it  now !' ' 

And  they  went — to  Lord  and  Lady  Arden  in  the  smoking-room. 
Faith  smiled  and  Eric  smiled  and  Lady  Arden  said  next  to  nothing; 
and  his  righteous  lordship  felt  that  the  odds  of  opinion  were  against 
him.  Nor  upon  being  pressed  could  he  quote  any  particular  ground 
against  the  marriage:  a  score  of  precedents  could  be  cited  by  the 
young  couple  in  favour  of  it.  He  did  not  give  way  there  and  then, 
his  dignity  as  a  father  at  all  events  required  salving;  he  would 
"think  the  matter  over — and  they  must  on  no  account  build  any 
hopes  on  that." 

Well,  future  fathers-in-law  had  a  habit  of  thinking  matters 
over! 

The  young  couple,  so  far  satisfied,  proceeded  to  act  with  sagacity. 
Again,  it  was  Faith's  suggestion.  They  went  up  to  London  for 
the  day;  they  went  to  see  Cyril  Orde.  They  consulted  him,  as  a 
friend  of  the  family  no  less  than  as  a  man  of  the  world,  upon  the 
matter  of  how  they  should  ensure  her  father's  consent  or,  failing  it, 
how  should  next  act.  Cyril  said,  "Do  nothing!"  And  within  a 
week  his  wisdom — and  their  wisdom — were  vindicated.  Lord 
Arden  went  direct  to  that  same  friend  in  whose  judgment  he 


ANOTHER  WINTER  PASSES  325 

placed  confidence  and  asked  his  opinion  not  only  of  his  prospective 
son-in-law's  future  but  of  the  war  future  in  general ;  how,  in  short, 
would  he  recommend  a  father  to  act?  Orde  played  up  manfully. 

"Let  'em  marry.  They  know  what  they're  doin',  damn  it. 
They're  not  fools.  You'll  find  precious  few  flies  on  either  of  'em. 
Eric's  got  money  and  a  career  in  front  of  him  if  he  comes  through 
the  war.  Faith's  got  a  head  on  her  shoulders.  Let  'em  go  and 
do  their  worst!" 

Lord  Arden  did  not  return  to  Arden.  At  heart  he  was  a  coward 
in  such  matters.  He  allowed  his  lady  to  communicate  his  august 
decision.  Both  the  young  people  wrote  him  affectionate  letters  of 
thanks.  He  replied  to  each  with  dignity.  The  wedding,  it  was 
settled,  should  take  place  "some  time  in  the  summer,"  Eric's  next 
leave  being  the  deciding  factor. 

It  was  from  Faith  through  Eric  that  Adrian  had  tidings  of  Rose- 
mary, though,  indeed,  he  did  not  seek  the  information. 

The  two  old  friends  discussed  the  matter  dispassionately,  un- 
emotionally, critically  almost  as  those  do  who  discuss  the  affairs 
of  mutual  friend.  She  "went  about,"  it  appeared,  "everywhere"; 
danced,  sold  tickets  for  charity,  acted  for  charity;  was  admired; 
was  sought  after;  Harold  Upton  invariably  with  her;  the  whole 
of  the  Clan  Maryon — hovering.  People  talked.  Were  the  couple 
engaged,  they  begged  to  know.  It  had  been  going  on  a  long  time 
now;  no  lack  of  money;  why  wrasn't  it  announced?  And  where 
did  Sir  Adrian  Knoyle  come  in?  Society's  curiosity  was  piqued. 
The  world  interests  itself  in  such  matters.  Well — it  felt  in  de- 
cency it  ought  to  be  informed. 

Adrian  for  his  part  refused  analysis.  He  refused  to  consult  his 
feelings  in  the  matter.  It  all  seemed  outside  and  beyond  him  now, 
the  mere  abstract  affair  of  someone  he  had  once  known,  though 
deep  down  in  his  heart  a  voice  tried  to  find  utterance.  If  she  so 
much  as  breathed,  hinted,  gave  a  sign — even  now?  The  instant  of 
that  thought  he  could  not  stifle.  At  such  times  feeling  threatened 
to  swamp  him,  and  in  a  sort  of  terror  he  would  resurrect  the 
spectre  of  one  never-to-be-forgotten  winter's  eve. 

Needless  to  say,  there  came  no  sign. 


326  WAY  OF  REVELATION 


§  4 

As  the  months  went  by  and  the  monotony  of  winter  trench-life 
ate  into  his  soul,  a  certain  indifference  came.  Beaumont  Hamel 
was  on  the  whole  comfortable,  too  comfortable  perhaps;  danger 
there  was  little  and  of  work  merely  routine;  the  rear  billets  were 
good;  reliefs  frequent.  Hours,  many  hours,  were  spent  both  in 
the  trenches  and  out  of  them,  doing  nothing,  smoking  and  drinking, 
playing  cards,  talking,  trying  to  read,  but  chiefly  thinking — think- 
ing. .  .  . 

One  incident  did  occur  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  the  winter.  This 
was  the  award  to  Lieutenant  Knoyle,  of  the  Military  Cross  "for 
gallantry  and  presence  of  mind  on  the  night  of  June  25th,"  etc., 
etc.  Adrian  looked  at  his  diary. 

June  25.  It  was  the  night  of  Walker's  death.  .  .  .  "Gallantry 
and  presence  of  mind,"  indeed! 

He  laughed  whole-heartedly  for  the  first  time  in  many  months, 
then  crumpled  up  the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  the  brief  notice  was 
typed  and  trod  it  under  heel.  Three  weeks  later  he  was  summoned 
to  the  orderly  room  to  show  cause  why  he  was  not  wearing  the 
decoration  which  His  Majesty  had  been  graciously  pleased  to  con- 
fer upon  him. 

"I  thought  it  was  a  joke,"  he  replied  with  due  regard  for  truth. 

Everyone  remarked  upon  his  modesty. 


Early  in  December  it  was  his  turn  for  leave.  He  spent  the  fort- 
night with  Lady  Knoyle  at  Ascot,  reading  and  playing  golf.  He 
did  not  want  to  see  anybody  or  to  re-visit  any  remembered  haunts. 
Yet  on  the  instant  of  an  unexplained  impulse — it  was  a  Sunday 
evening — he  rang  up  Grosvenor  Mansions  on  the  trunk-line. 

A  voice  that  still  had  power  to  quicken  every  pulse  in  him 
answered. 

"Hullo!    Who  is  it?" 


ANOTHER  WINTER  PASSES  327 

"Adrian  Knoyle." 

There  was  a  second's  pause.  .  .  . 

Blood  rushed  to  his  head. 

Then  the  receiver  at  the  other  end  slammed  down. 

§6 

Upon  his  return  to  the  front,  week-end  trips  to  the  gay  city  of 
Amiens,  no  great  distance  away,  became  common  throughout  the 
winter,  and  these  made  for  the  distraction  everybody  desired.  Eric 
always  insisted  on  his  friend's  company.  As  senior  subaltern, 
Adrian  had  paramount  liberty.  The  two  officers  who  had  lately 
joined  the  company  were  entertaining  companions,  not  less  so,  per- 
haps, because  they  could  agree  on  no  one  subject  and  quarrelled 
without  bitterness  but  without  pause :  Burns,  a  Colonial  who  wore 
two  South  African  ribbons — he  had  already  fought  in  German 
East — Fotheringay  the  dandified  scion  of  an  "effete  aristocracy" 
who  had  yet  to  outlive  the  rather  too  evident  polish  of  Sandhurst. 
The  earlier  contrast  between  Cornwallis  and  Walker  could  not 
have  been  sharper  than  that  between  these  two. 

Burns  held  forth  at  every  opportunity,  licence  being  extended  to 
age  and  experience;  Fotheringay  denied — with  oaths.  So  it  went 
on.  In  private  they  appreciated  each  other's  point  of  view. 

It  was  an  epoch  of  violent  dinner-parties  and  violent  discus- 
sions. One  occasion,  in  especial,  Adrian  remembered,  partly  owing 
to  the  fact  of  its  being  a  Christmas  dinner-party.  The  subject  was 
the  professional  versus  the  citizen  army,  a  favourite  bone  of  con* 
tention. 

"One  can  never  think  of  the  army  again  in  a  purely  professional 
sense,"  the  South  African  veteran  announced.  "The  old  idea  of  it 
as  a  highly  specialised  and  technical  thing — even  in  the  case  of 
branches  like  the  artillery  and  engineers — has  been  washed  out. 
The  war  itself  has  done  that.  As  for  the  infantry — one  has  only 
to  look  at  the  case  of  a  man  like  Alston  or  our  noble  friend  over 
there  with  the  beautiful  ribbons." 

He  indicated  Eric  Sinclair,  who  since  the  Battle  of  the  Somme 


328  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

wore  the  Distinguished  Service  Order  in  addition  to  his  earlier 
decoration.  Burns  himself  provided  a  singular  contrast  to  his 
youthful  company-commander  and,  indeed,  to  everybody  else  pres- 
ent; his  hair  was  turning  grey,  he  had  a  rough  and  aggressive 
exterior,  his  moustache  was  grizzled,  his  face  lined  and  wrinkled, 
his  eyes  deep-set  under  bushy  eyebrows.  Altogether  he  deserved 
the  term  "hard-bitten."  He  admitted  to  being  forty-five,  but  was 
reputed  to  have  passed  the  half-century.  In  him  age  and  im- 
petuosity so  combined  that  he  was  a  source  of  entertainment  to  all 
ranks — and  of  some  admiration. 

"Yes,  we're  both  good  examples  of  the  unprofessional  officer," 
said  Eric. 

"Take  Alston,  for  instance,"  the  elder  man  went  on,  "a  bar- 
rister by  profession.  The  only  uniform  he  ever  wore  was  a  wig 
and  gown.  Never  done  a  day's  soldiering  in  his  life.  Joins  the 
regiment,  comes  out  here,  and  within  six  months  has  a  company. 
And  he  was  as  good  a  company-commander  as  the  battalion's  ever 
had — wasn't  he  ?  Of  course  he's  sacrificed  his  professional  career." 

"What  about  G.H.Q.,  Burns— they're  all  Sandhurst  people," 
put  in  a  high-pitched  confident  voice.  It  belonged  to  the  fair- 
haired  Fotheringay,  sitting  further  along  the  dinner-table.  His 
sleek  appearance  and  fresh  countenance  suggested  nineteen  as  his 
probable  age. 

"The  Staff!"  Burns  sniffed  with  rather  ostentatious  contempt. 

Two  or  three  of  the  junior  officers  at  the  end  of  the  table  began 
singing  a  verse  of  a  popular  and  ribald  song  which  began: 

"Then  up  spake  the  gallant  Red-cap ," 

others  joining  in  until  the  large  wooden  hut  in  which  the  officers 
were  gathered  echoed  and  re-echoed  to  the  limits  of  its  tin  roof. 

"Where  are  your  red  tabs,  Fotheringay?"  somebody  shouted. 

"Well,  generals  if  you  like,"  retorted  the  latter  as  soon  as  his 
voice  could  be  heard. 

"Oh ! — oh !"  howled  the  chorus.  "Generals !"  And  they  started 
another  verse  of  their  favourite  ditty. 


ANOTHER  WINTER  PASSES  329 

The  whisky-bottle  never  ceased  to  circulate,  and  the  fizzing 
sound  of  soda-water  bottles  being  uncorked  formed  an  impertinent 
commentary  on  the  general  conversation.  The  table  glowed  with 
candles  stuck  in  bottles  which  focused  the  faces  surrounding  it  in 
a  sphere  of  light.  Shadows  filled  the  rest  of  the  hut. 

Burns,  not  to  be  denied,  continued  the  conversation. 

"My  view  is  that  this  army's  being  run  and  this  war  will  be 
won  by  common  sense  and  common  sense  alone."  ("Hear,  hear!" 
interjected  several  voices  mockingly.  "Is  that  why  you  joined 
it?")  "High  technical  training  won't  do  it.  Years  of  experience 
won't  do  it,  because  in  a  citizen  army  you  haven't  got  experience. 
Most  of  the  old  stock  infantry  training  tactics  and  the  old  shib- 
boleths and  the  old  commonplaces  and  conventions  we  lived  by  in 
South  Africa  were  washed  out  within  a  month  of  Mons.  The 
training  of  years  went — I  won't  say  for  nought,  but  it  had  to  be 
re-shaped  and  re-learnt  in  the  light  of  experience.  The  machine- 
gun,  for  instance,  heavy  artillery  and  trench  warfare,  undid  the 
old  ideas;  the  application  of  the  new  arms  had  to  be  learnt  as 
much  by  the  old  troops  as  by  the  new.  Only  war  reveals  these 
things  as  it  reveals  the  quality  of  the  men  who  apply  them.  Even 
South  Africa  showed  that  in  a  limited  way." 

"What  about  discipline?"  put  in  Adrian,  who  was  interested. 

"Ah!  Discipline  for  the  men — common  sense  for  the  officers — 
esprit  de  corps  for  all.  Discipline's  the  one  thing  that  has  never 
ceased  to  count,  as  we  all  know.  Tactics  may  have  changed,  but 
the  drill-book  is  more  important  than  ever  before.  The  best- 
disciplined  troops  have  fought  best  in  this  war.  But  after  all  it's 
largely  the  discipline  of  loyalty.  Well-led  troops  will  always 
fight.  Disciplined  troops  under  an  incompetent  leader  will  fight 
no  better  than  they  must." 

"The  men  like  following  a  gentleman,"  contributed  Fother- 
ingay. 

"Therefore  there  must  always  be  an  Officer  class.'  But  they 
will  also,  you  may  have  noticed,  follow  a  brave  man  whatever  he 
is.  That's  just— -English." 

"Yes — and   not   boche,   Burns,"   interposed   Tritton,   the   new 


330  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

adjutant,  rudely.  He  was  a  tall  young  man  with  a  dissipated  and 
rather  vacant  face. 

There  was  laughter  at  the  play  on  words,  especially  as  it  was 
a  point  scored  against  Burns  who,  among  other  controversial 
humours,  sided  with  the  Germans  whenever  possible. 

"When  all's  said  and  done,  though,  the  German  soldier  and  the 
British  soldier  are  pretty  much  alike.  I  know  it's  not  the  popular 
view.  Don't  howl  me  down." 

Tritton  said:   "You've  joined  the  wrong  army,  Burns." 

Somebody  else  called  out:  "Yes,  you  lousy  old  Fritz!  You 
have." 

"I'm  not,"  the  grey-haired  man  replied.  "I'm  not  pro-German. 
I  hate  him  because  we're  righting  him.  It's  our  job  to  kill  him  and 
beat  him.  But  I  am  up  against  mere  newspaper  cant  and  jingoism. 
Frankly  I  respect  the  German  as  a  soldier.  He's  done  some  bloody 
things.  But  history  will  show  that  we've  all  done  bloody  things. 
War's  a  bloody  business — rather  particularly  this  war." 

"What  tripe  he  talks!"  commented  Fotheringay,  turning  to 
Adrian,  confident  in  the  latter's  agreement. 

The  senior  subaltern  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"You  think  so?"  He  liked,  but  nevertheless  felt  a  constant 
desire  to  snub  this  redundant  young  person,  for  whom  the  tradi- 
tional standpoint  so  conspiciously  sufficed.  "Why  ?"  he  added. 

"Well  —  obviously."  Fotheringay  turned  to  Tritton,  upon 
whose  support  at  any  rate  he  could  count.  "Mad,  isn't  he, 
Tritton?" 

"Mad  isn't  the  word,"  replied  the  latter.  "Drinks  his  bath 
water,  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  he  murmured  to  himself. 

The  conversation  ended  with  the  usual  frivolities  about  women 
— and  Fotheringay  intoxicated. 

"God  bless  'em,  the  little  angels!"  the  youth  hiccoughed,  clinging 
to  his  crony,  one  Gerald  Sutton.  "Oh,  how  I  love  'em !  Just  little 
Lily  and  a  bottle  of  fizz  at  the  Savoy  Grill — how  happy  one  would 
be!" 

Laughter  and  applause  followed  this  sentiment. 

"Sinclair — Sin — Sinclair    old    boy,"    bawled    the    irresponsible 


ANOTHER  WINTER  PASSES  331 

youth.  "I — I  love  you.1  D'you  know  I  feel  rather  tight?'*  ("You 
are,"  murmured  his  company-commander,  lighting  a  cigarette.  He 
was  accustomed  to  and  rather  bored  by  his  subaltern's  vagaries.) 
"Stand  by  me!  Take  me  home!  Slosh  that  old  blighter  Burns, 
somebody!  Ah!  here's  m'old  friend  J — J — Jerry.  Have  another 
drink  with  me,  Jerry!  Then  we'll  slosh  old  b — b — bloody  Mr. 
Burns  a  couple.  Hooroosh!" 

He  whooped  and  yelled — his  friend  in  a  like  condition. 

Burns  smiled  grimly. 

"Oh!  Jerry  old  boy!"  the  inebriated  young  gentleman  con- 
tinued in  piercing  tones.  "Oh!  Jerry,  why  aren't  we  going  to  a 
dance  to-night  ?  Why  aren't  we  taking  Kitty  and — and — the  other 
one  to  the  Grafton — Oh!  my  lor,  how  tight  I  am!  I'm  blithero 
.  .  .  not  a  respectable  dance  I  mean — not — not  one  like  Mrs.  Riv 
—what's  her  damned  name — gave.  That  one  of  Gina  Maryon's, 
d'you  remember?  What  were  those  cigarettes  she  gave  us  to  try, 
old  boy,  d'you  remember?  And  that  funny  muck.  Lor!  You 
snuffed  it  up  your  nose  out  of  a  little  gold  box.  They  were  all 
trying  it,  all  snuffing  it  up  their  noses.  .  .  .  And  that  gal,  Rose- 
mary What's-its-name.  Lovely  creature.  And  the  Romanes! 
And  Gina!  Oh,  lor,  what  days — what  days!  What — er — nights 
of  joy!  Old  days — never  come  back!  Damn  it!  ...  There's 
that  wicked  old  man,  Burns,  laughing  at  us!  Come  on,  Jerry, 
slosh  him  a  couple!" 

Lord  F.  reeled  drunkenly  towards  the  older  man,  who  took  hold 
of  him  and  laid  him  gently  on  the  floor. 

Eric  said  sharply:  "Come  on,  off  you  go  to  bed!"  and  witli 
Burns'  assistance  dragged  his  protesting  subaltern  outside. 

Adrian  followed,  very  white, 

§7 

So  the  dinner-parties  behind  the  front  sometimes  ended. 

And  it  was  in  this  Bacchic  atmosphere — this  atmosphere  of  loud  * 
ness,  of  semi-intoxicated,  half-humorous  quarrelling,  endless  "rag- 
ging," gossip,  Divisional  "shop,"  and  a  large  amount  of  rather 


332  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

reckless  card-playing — that  the  winter  passed.  In  the  early  spring 
of  1917  the  German  withdrawal  from  the  Somme  front  began, 
and  anticipating  it  by  only  a  few  days,  the  Division  was  withdrawn 
for  a  long  period  of  training  and  rest  near  to  Peronne.  The  coun- 
try to  which  they  came  consisted  of  wide  grassy  uplands  in  whose 
hollows  the  villages  lay,  and  it  was  peculiarly  suited  to  those 
equestrian  and  other  exercises  in  which  the  British  officer  has  always 
excelled.  There  were  horse-races;  there  were  field-sports;  there 
were  hare-chases  on  horseback  in  which  all  the  officers  of  the 
battalion  took  part,  amid  the  loudest  whooping  and  excitement; 
there  were  judging-competitions  and  jumping.  The  men  mean- 
while made  gardens,  played  football,  and  when  the  warmer  weather 
came  took  to  bathing  in  the  nearby  river. 

Light  fatigues  lightly  undertaken,  such  as  the  laying  of  railways 
and  the  digging  of  a  rear  defence-line,  occupied  the  earlier  part  of 
this  period  of  rest.  Later,  training  earnestly  began,  drill  was  con- 
stant, and  field-practices  on  a  large  scale  took  place  two  or  three 
times  a  week.  Everybody  bemoaned  these  as  an  unheard-of  labour, 
it  being  the  regulation  army  habit  to  do  so ;  as  a  fact,  the  weather 
being  fine  and  the  work  not  uninteresting,  they  were  rather  en- 
joyed. Though  a  good  deal  of  walking  was  entailed,  together  with 
occasional  spurts  of  unwonted  energy,  there  was  also  much  lying 
about  in  the  warm  spring  weather.  Adrian,  for  his  part,  inclined 
to  take  the  operations  seriously.  He  foresaw  the  time  approaching 
when  he  might  expect  to  command  a  company — was,  in  fact,  over- 
due to  do  so.  Much  as  he  might  desire  to  remain  Eric's  lieutenant 
in  the  Left  Flank  Company,  this  other  was  a  prospect  he  could  not 
afford  to  neglect.  He  was  sensible  of  his  short-comings,  having 
realised  long  since  that  he  never  could  become  a  soldier  of  quality 
as  Eric  was.  What  had  been  true  of  the  era  before  Neuve  Chapelle 
remained  true  now.  Eric  in  battle  or  manoeuvre  did  the  right 
thing  instinctively;  for  himself,  only  by  a  more  or  less  exhaustive 
process  of  thought  could  he  arrive  at  correct  solutions.  This  dif- 
ference between  them  there  would  always  be.  If  brilliance,  he 
reflected,  could  not  be  the  lot  of  all,  efficiency  might  yet  be  won 
by  labour  and  creditable  pains. 


ANOTHER  WINTER  PASSES  333 

Burns  proved  himself  sound,  solid,  conscientious;  the  boy, 
Fotheringay,  for  all  his  reckless,  feckless  and  riotous  behaviour — 
smart.  He  knew  his  drill,  he  handled  his  men  like  a  martinet,  he 
knew  the  technical  things  by  the  technical  names,  in  the  field  he 
was  apt  to  accomplish  sly  and  clever  feats  of  his  own  choosing. 
This  was  under  the  eye  of  a  superior;  behind  the  superior's  back, 
he  played  shove  ha'penny  with  his  platoon-sergeant,  or,  placing  a 
man  on  guard,  went  to  sleep. 

During  all  this  period,  rumours  were  afloat.  "Spring  offensive" 
was  in  the  air;  "spring  offensive"  was  the  topic  of  conversation 
when  nothing  else  served.  In  April,  the  Battle  of  Arras  was  fought 
a  few  miles  to  the  northward,  which  failing,  no  more  appeared  to 
be  contemplated  in  that  direction.  "St.  Quentin"  was  then  on 
everybody's  lips — "to  take  over  a  new  bit  of  line."  That,  too,  was 
discounted  by  events.  Then  Bullecourt,  La  Bassee,  Armentieres, 
each  was  mentioned  in  turn,  the  real  solution — as  generally  hap- 
pened in  such  cases — being  left  out  of  account. 

It  was  Ypres. 

Yes!  After  all  the  tramping  and  all  the  fighting  and  all  the 
resting,  and  all  the  guessing  and  the  hoping,  it  was  back  to  the 
Ypres  "Salient  they  eventually  trekked.  And  a  June  day  of  such 
heat,  such  dust,  and  such  fair  promise  as  had  seen  them  depart 
rejoicing  ten  months  before,  found  them  encamped  once  more  in 
the  oak-woods  north  of  the  Poperinghe  road. 


CHAPTER    II 
Faith  and  Eric 


BIG  BEN  has  just  chimed  a  quarter  before  two  of  a  warm  afternoon 
in  July,  1917. 

And  already  St.  Margaret's  Church  is  more  than  half  filled. 
This  impression  is  perhaps  unduly  emphasised  by  the  fact  that  the 
guests  have  spread  themselves  widely  about  the  pews.  Still,  the 
more  important  ones  have  yet  to  arrive.  These  like  to  be — well, 
not  late,  but  as  nearly  late  as  possible. 

Enter  Heathcote.  He  is  at  ease.  He  is  suavely  dressed.  He 
smiles  with  the  smile  of  white  spats,  a  turquoise  pin  in  a  black  stock, 
a  well-groomed  moustache,  a  carnation  button-hole.  He  trots  a 
short  distance  up  the  aisle,  bowing  and  smiling  from  the  waist — 
whom  shall  he  sit  next?  Anybody  "interesting?"  What  a  nice 
wedding  it  will  be!  Ah!  Mrs.  Ralph  Clinton — such  an  agreeable 
woman,  and  very  much  affairee  with  "everybody!"  Pleasantries, 
whispered  comments,  smiles.  ... 

At  the  west  entrance  of  the  church,  a  slight  commotion.  Three- 
quarters  of  the  assembled  congregation  looks  behind  it — the  re- 
maining quarter  is  looking  at  the  three-quarters.  The  bride  ?  One 
is  frankly  disappointed:  it  is  only  an  arrival.  Mrs.  Rivington  (of 
Rivington)  sails  up  the  aisle,  decorously  and  properly 'attended  by 
her  nieces,  Miss  Kenelm  and  Miss  Lettice  Kenelm.  (Miss  Lettice 
Kenelm,  without  the  curate?)  Mrs.  Rivington  is,  immense — and 
grand.  Plumed  and  feathered  uppermost,  beneath  her  large,  good- 
natured  face  and  double  chin  she  is  caped,  furred,  frilled,  and  laced 
to  an  extent,  one  would  think,  incompatible  with  human  nature. 
(But  who  is  to  analyse,  let  alone  comprehend,  the  anatomy  of 

334 


FAITH  AND  ERIC  335 

Fashion?)  Passers-by  had  a  look  at  her — and  wondered.  The 
common  herd  on  either  side  of  the  red  carpet  had  taken  her  with- 
out hesitation  for  a  Duchess.  Such  quantity  allied  with  quality — 
of  raiment. 

And  Miss  Kenelm  and  Miss  Lettice  Kenelm,  too,  for  all  the 
warmth  of  the  midsummer  day,  are  caped,  furred,  frilled,  and 
laced — and  also  plumed  and  feathered — uppermost. 

On  their  heels,  the  Countess  of  Cranford  and  Lady  Rosemary 
Meynell  followed  by  the  clever  young  political  private  secretary 
(and  searchlight  operator)  Harold  Upton.  Lady  Cranford,  hand- 
some in  black  and  pearls  with  elegant  carriage,  white  hair,  and 
jewel-like  eyes,  attracts  attention.  People  are  cowed  by  aloofness. 
When  they  see  it,  they  cease  to  believe  in — humanity.  The  tall 
and  graceful  daughter  is  in  dark  blue  with  a  broad-brimmed  hat. 
Lieutenant  Upton,  in  the  uniform  of  the  Royal  Naval  Volunteer 
Reserve,  looks  the  part  he  so  capably  plays — that  of  the  sailor-poet. 

Whispers,  audible  enough,  greet  this  entry.  "How  well  she 
looks!"  "He's  very  rich,  isn't  he?"  "Ain't  they  engaged?"  "Oh, 
yes — ages  ago."  "When's  it  coming  off?"  "Helena  Cranford 
disapproves  of  war-time  marriages." 

Then-  the  Freemans.  Lady  Freeman,  smart — Parisian,  or  should 
one  say  Palm  Beach?  Before  alighting  from  her  car,  she  has 
arranged  herself,  acquired  an  expression  of  good-looking  wickedness 
(while  entering  the  porch),  and  feels  self-confident  in  virtue  of 
being  so  very  down-to-date  (as  she  trips  up  the  aisle).  It  is  a 
precious  moment.  She  is  followed  by  Mrs.  Granville-Brown  and 
by  her  husband,  Sir  Walter.  They  enter  their  seats  and  all  bow 
to  Lady  Cranford,  who  looks. 

Little  Miss  Ingleby  darts  in  through  a  side-door  like  a  squirrel. 
With  his  arm  in  a  sling,  slightly  pale,  very  diffident,  and  in  uni- 
form, Mr.  Cornwallis  shows  her  to  a  seat. 

And  now  the  great  British  Aristocracy  appears  in  the  respectively 
portly  and  reduced  personages  of  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Don- 
caster,  who  march  up  the  aisle  occasionally  nodding,  occasionally 
bowing,  not  smiling,  but  frowning  and  scowling.  That  high 
domed  brow,  that  steely  jackdaw  eye,  that  shrivelled  biting  pres- 


336  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

ence!  The  important  couple,  grandparents  of  the  bride,  take  theif 
seats  beside  their  daughter,  Lady  Arden,  who  embattled  by  children 
has  been  for  some  time  sitting  placidly  in  the  front  pew  on  the 
right-hand  side. 

And  at  this  moment,  the  best  man  is  wheeled  into  view — grim. 
It  is  Major  Orde.  "Not  I!"  he  had  said  when  pressed  to  act  in 
the  absence  of  Sir  Adrian  Knoyle.  "It  wouldn't  be  decent.  Think 
what  a  scene  in  a  wheeled-chair!"  Nevertheless,  he  has  been  bested 
by  his  young  friends'  joint  entreaties. 

Yes — and  here  at  the  same  moment — as  is  proper,  for  two  o'clock 
strikes — here  comes  the  bridegroom.  Captain  Sinclair  looks  very 
little  changed;  who  wrould  think  he'd  been  through  so  much? 
Delicate  of  complexion,  girlish,  his  little  moustache  carefully 
trimmed,  he  wears  an  affable  smile  which  reflects  pleasantly  the 
hilt  of  his  sword,  his  buttons,  his  accoutrements,  his  boots.  If  sug- 
gestively bored  by  the  proceedings,  he  scarcely  shows  it.  He  plays 
his  part  with  an  air  of  quite  insolent  self-possession. 

Lady  Doncaster — elderly  martinets  will ! — has  had  her  way.  In 
face  of  the  combined  protestations,  the  prolonged  entreaties  of  Lord 
and  Lady  Arden,  all  the  little  Daventrys,  and  the  young  couple 
themselves,  she  has  insisted  on  what  she  calls  a  "decent  wedding." 
"No  Wardour,"  she  has  averred  when  pleaded  with  for  a  quiet 
affair  at  Arden,  "no  Wardour  has  ever  been  married  in  that  hole- 
and-corner  way  people  have  of  doing  things  nowadays.  Nor  has  a 
Daventry."  And  as  for  the  war,  what  on  earth  had  that  to  do 
with  a  wedding?  The  logic  was  not  perhaps  unanswerable,  but 
it  was  inexorable. 

And  now  there  is  a  stir  at  the  church  door.  7$  the  bride 
arriving?  The  hum  of  conversation  that  has  almost  filled  the 
church  momentarily  ceases — ceases  because  everyone  has  turned  to 
look  round.  Those  in  front  whose  view  is  impeded  by  those  be- 
hind, half-rise  in  their  seats:  one  such  is  Lady  Freeman,  her  ostrich 
feathers  and  slashed  cloak  being  unmistakable.  Some  have  to  peep 
round  pillars.  Lady  Doncaster  and  Lady  Cranford  alone  look 
rigidly  to  the  front.  .  .  .  And  after  all  it  is  a  false  alarm.  Yet 
not  quite  an  anti-climax.  The  famous — or  should  it  rather  be 


FAITH  AND  ERIC  337 

notorious? — some  say  one  thing,  some  another — Gina  Maryon  an3 
her  friend,  Mrs.  Gerard  Romane. '  Well,  this  couple  are  always — 
interesting.  And  they  push  their  way  in,  kissing  the  pages  and 
maids  of  honour,  who,  herded  by  their  mammas,  governesses  and 
nurses  are  grouped  at  the  foot  of  the  aisle  in  readiness  for  the 
bride's  arrival — smiling,  waving,  shaking  hands,  carrying  on  ani- 
mated, declamatory  conversations  with  friends  as  they  pass  up  the 
aisle — modernly  attired  in  bits  of  chiffon  vaguely  attached  to 
brilliant-hued  ribbons,  the  one  wearing  a  very  large  and  the  other 
an  uncommonly  small  hat,  both  entirely  unselfconscious. 

Lady  Freeman's  eyes  are  raptly  fixed  on  this — this  so  effective 
entree.  For  it  is  effective.  .  .  .  What  is  there  about  this  Gina 
Maryon?  .  .  .  Lady  Freeman  comes  to  the  conclusion  it  is  "de- 
scent." After  all — she  reflects — the  young  woman,  however 
perilously  she  may  coquette  at  times  with  the  music-hall  stage  or 
the  demi-monde,  is  a  true-born  daughter  of  the  noble  and  ancient 
house  of  Penrith.  Which  fact  obliterates  all  venial  sins.  .  .  . 

Smiling  and  not  apologising,  the  two  objects  of  her  reflection 
push  inconveniently  past  Lady  Cranford  into  a  seat  next  Rosemary 
Meynell. 

The  bride,  too,  is  late.  That  is  no  ill  omen,  however,  but  a 
prerogative  of  brides.  And  Lord  Arden  is  always  late.  However, 
conversation  goes  on  merrily,  the  ladies  having  all  their  work  cut 
out  to  detail  and  piece  together  again  each  other's  garments.  The 
bridesmaids  come  off  worst.  Being  small  people,  carrying  bouquets 
larger  than  themselves  and  attired  in  frocks  the  most  delicate  and 
elusive,  they  are  constrained  to  stand  about  at  the  bottom  of  the 
aisle,  taxing  their  own  and  everybody  else's  patience,  getting  dis- 
tressingly intermixed  with  those  who  pass  backwards  and  forwards 
between  the  outer  and  the  inner  doors.  It  goes  without  saying 
that  they  demand  to  be  taken  home;  that  the  big  bridesmaids  do 
not  know  how  to  control  the  little  ones  or  do  not  attempt  to ;  that, 
as  near  as  possible,  there  is  an  infra  dig.  affair  with  the  pages. 

At  length,  the  bride  does  arrive :  treacherously,  basely,  unfairly, 
for  the  organ  is  playing  a  voluntary  and  the  front  people  do  not 
realise  what  has  happened  until  the  back  people  stand  up  and  the 


338  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

vision  in  white  has  nearly  reached  the  altar-steps.  Yes — only  the 
back  people  get  a  fair  look.  On  the  arm  of  Lord  Arden  she 
advances — slowly.  Lord  Arden,  in  uniform,  field-booted  and 
spurred,  looks  hearty,  with  a  complexion  more  than  ever  the  colour 
of  ripe  mulberries.  Of  the  bride  little  can  be  seen.  She  is  no 
longer  a  woman ;  she  is  lace  and  veil  and  orange-blossom. 

Then  the  service  begins.  In  a  sharp  parade  voice  Eric  Quentin 
on  his  part  undertakes  to  love  and  to  cherish,  etc.,  etc.,  Faith 
Helena  Mary ;  and  in  a  clear,  firm  voice  Faith  Helena  Mary  under- 
takes on  her  part  to  love,  cherish,  and  obey  Eric  Quentin  until 
death  them  do  part. 

All  sing  the  time-honoured  hymns:  creditably  on  the  whole, 
though  (Rosemary  Meynell  whispers  to  Gina  Maryon),  with  faint 
suggestions  that  a  penny  has  been  slipped  into  the  slot  for  the 
occasion.  The  Vicar  of  Arden  provides  a  short  valedictory  address 
on  the  eternal  quality  of  marriage,  strongly  advising  his  two  young 
friends  to  acquire  as  quickly  as  convenient  such  trifling  virtues  as 
they  may  not  already  possess. 

An  anthem  is  sung;  and  a  hymn.  And  then  the  full  band  of 
Captain  Sinclair's  regiment  plays  the  "Wedding  March"  rousingly ; 
and  down  the  chancel  steps  come  the  happy  couple — Mrs.  Eric 
Sinclair  radiant  through  her  veil,  the  bridegroom  smiling  a  bland 
and  suitable  smile  which — Mr.  Arthur  Cornwallis  reflects — seems 
neither  more  nor  less  bland  and  suitable  here  than  upon  the  battle- 
fields of  Ypres  and  of  the  Somme. 

It  cannot,  of  course,  be  helped.  But  once  again  everybody  is 
unable  to  obtain  a  quite  comfortably  good  view.  Lady  Freeman 
overcomes  the  difficulty  first.  Balancing  herself  against  a  pillar, 
she  places  an  elegant  foot  upon  the  seat  of  her  pew.  Several  ladies 
who  are  in  a  position  to  do  so  follow  suit — not  always  with  satis- 
factory results.  A  marchioness,  it  is  observed,  collapses  beneath 
the  weight  of  her  wig,  her  ornaments,  and  her  person.  Precisely 
the  same  thing  befalls  Mrs.  Rivington,  who,  having  insisted  on 
being  uphoisted  by  the  united  efforts  of  the  Misses  Kenelm,  sinks 
back  selfishly,  thereby  all  but  pulping  the  one  and  pulverising  the 
other. 


FAITH  AND  ERIC  339 

While  the  register  is  being  signed,  everybody  talks.  "How  well 
the  bride  looked !"  "What  a  lovely  gown !"  "What  a  nice-looking 
boy,  that  Eric  Sinclair — and  plenty  of  money!" 

Outside  a  raucous  voice  yells:  "Storming  of  the  Messines 
Ridge!"  Yet — well — really — how  much  more  exciting  a  wedding 
than  a  war! 

And  so  they  go  their  several  ways  in  motor-cars,  carriages  and 
taxicabs.  There  is  to  be  no  breakfast;  no  confetti;  no  facetious- 
ness.  Lord  Arden  and  the  bridegroom  have  stamped  their  feet  on 
all  three.  Just  a  small  family  party.  After  which  the  newly- 
married  couple  disappear  in  the  direction  of  Sheringham,  where, 
nice,  kind  (and  useful)  Mrs.  Rivington  has  lent  her  villa. 

§  * 

And  although  Society  sees  a  great  many  things — especially  at 
weddings — and  delights  to  poke  its  nose  into  people's  private  lives 
and  devour  and  batten  upon,  if  given  half  a  chance,  their  special 
little  intimacies  and  their  special  little  secrets,  it  does  not  see 
quite  all  of  the  game. 

Neither  Society — nor  any  one  else  in  the  wide  world — has  any 
part  to  play  or  any  look-in  at  that  moment  when  the  train  increases 
speed  passing  out  of  London,  and  in  a  reserved  first-class  com- 
partment, a  smart  young  man  draws  a  fair  young  woman  to  him- 
self; and  the  young  woman  whispers  "At  last!"  with  that  look  in 
her  blue  eyes  which  a  nice  young  woman  wears  only  once  or  twice 
in  this  mortal  span. 


CHAPTER  III 
Their  Dream 


THREE  years  had  passed.  And  once  more  the  heat  of  a  summer's 
night  lay  heavy  upon  London. 

In  the  sombre  gloom  that  now  prevailed,  the  swaying  of  the 
midnight  crowds  through  the  once  garishly-lighted  thoroughfares 
around  Leicester  Square  and  Piccadilly  Circus  made  an  even  more 
deeply-moving  and  mystical  impression  than  of  old.  Across  the 
starless  night  search-lights  stretched  spectral  fingers.  In  these  three 
years  great  emotions,  stresses,  dangers  had  fluttered  the  heart  of  the 
strange  and  wonderful  city  without  for  one  moment  alleviating  its 
sorrows  or  obliterating  its  shames.  Yet  the  inner  consciousness  had 
indubitably  changed;  among  the  hurrying  crowds  could  be  found 
scarcely  an  individual  but  bore  some  hidden  scar  or  secret  pain. 
Fear  had  stalked  these  streets.  Dread  knocked  hourly  upon  the 
door  of  every  house,  grief  waited  upon  all.  But  the  world  danced 
on,  danced  ever. 

And  upon  a  certain  night  in  a  square  situated  just  off  Piccadilly, 
a  party  was  in  progress.  At  first  —  from  a  sense  of  decorum  of 
what-not  —  ladies  and  gentlemen  had  restrained  themselves;  then 
they  had  been  unable  to  restrain  themselves  longer.  And  all  at 
once  in  the  London  world  there  had  burst  out  a  passionate  furore 
of  —  "boy-and-girl  dances." 

To-night  Miss  Gina  Maryon  was  holding  such  an  affair  in 
honour  of  Captain  Sinclair  and  his  bride.  Their  honeymoon  over, 
Captain  Sinclair  was  on  the  eve  of  returning  to  the  front  —  which 
was  convenient  of  him,  since  there  was  nothing  Miss  Maryon  so 
particularly  desired  (at  the  moment)  as  an  excuse  for  giving  a 

340 


THEIR  DREAM  341 

"boy-and-girl"  dance.  (The  expression  was  hers;  it  has,  you  will 
kindly  note,  a  disengaging  air  of  youthful  spontaneity.)  The 
trouble  was  to  find  an  excuse.  Captain  and  Mrs.  Eric  Sinclair 
provided  one. 

Though  not  long  past  midnight,  the  thing  was  going  with  a 
swing.  The  floor  was  a  good  one ;  the  band  half  inebriated ;  every- 
body knew  everybody  else  to  the  point  of  Christian  names;  and 
all  the  children — the  prettiest  children,  the  best-dressed  children, 
the  best  behaved  and  most  entertaining  children — seemed  perfectly 
happy.  Not  merely  happy — excited,  thrilled.  Here  was  one  of 
the  last  of  a  long  series  of  "boy-and-girl"  dances  that  had  extended 
all  through  a  London  summer;  and  although  there  had  sometimes 
been  two  or  even  three  a  night,  the  thing  had  not  palled.  Rather 
had  the  flame  been  fanned;  and  beneath  the  free-and-easy  surface, 
the  perfect  flippancy,  a  discerning  person  might  have  discovered  a 
note  almost  fierce,  a  kind  of  hunger,  a  kind  of  reckless  craving  and 
endeavour. 

Under  the  electric  light  the  eyes  of  the  girls  were  daring  with 
laughter — the  girls  in  their  variegated  satin  gowns,  the  colours 
strikingly  slashed  and  intermingled;  the  eyes  of  their  youthful 
partners  less  expressive  but  with  the  same  gleam  of  uncontrollable 
excitement.  In  their  dark  blue  uniforms  with  the  broad  scarlet 
stripe  down  the  trousers,  gold  buttons,  and  stiff  collar,  the  young 
officers  of  the  Guards  and  Cavalry  looked  handsome.  Others  in 
evening  dress  were  no  doubt  on  leave  from  the  front.  Not  many 
of  the  old  Maryon  "clan"  were  present;  they  did  not  patronise 
such  youthful  entertainments.  In  a  variety  of  contortions,  in  a 
medley  of  twirls,  twists,  runs,  turns,  half-turns,  dips,  side-walks, 
rushes,  and  reverses,  the  twenty  or  thirty  couples  gyrated  round  the 
peculiar  Maryon  drawing-room.  The  musicians — black  fellows 
and  drunk — made  all  sounds  but  of  harmony  or  music.  They 
shouted,  sang,  stamped  on  the  floor;  played  madly,  madly  on  their 
banjolines  and  castanets.  They  thumped  the  drum,  thumbed  each 
other,  made  sounds  like  fog-horns,  whistled — dramatically  threw 
the  sticks  away  and  stopped. 

Everybody  stopped. 


342  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Eric  and  Faith  stopped.  Like  many  others,  they  hoped  the 
dance  would  not  end.  Clapping  their  hands,  everybody  called  out 
for  more.  And  the  band  began  again. 


§2 

"Oh!  my  dears,  isn't  it  hot.  I'm  exhausted!"  Gina  Maryon 
descended  upon  a  group  that  comprised  Eric,  Faith,  Upton,  Rose- 
mary Meynell,  and  Arthur  Cornwallis,  making  a  gesture,  as  though 
to  stand  up  was  a  feat  almost  beyond  physical  capacity.  "Rosebud, 
my  darling,  what  a  rather  lovely  frock !  Is  it  Manille  ?  I  thought 
so.  ...  Drink,  children!  Drink!  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  lest 
to-morrow — ye  die!" 

They  were  standing  beside  the  impromptu  buffet  that  had  been 
set  up  uncomfortably  in  a  recess  of  the  hall. 

Arthur  Cornwallis  politely  filled  everybody's  glass. 

"Your  very  good  health!"  he  said,  raising  his  to  Eric  and  Faith. 

The  glasses  clinked  all  round. 

"To  the  married  couple!    Long  life  and  happiness!" 

"What  about  the  unmarried  couple?"  cried  Gina.  "I  drink  to 
them!" 

Everybody  laughed. 

"Don't  anticipate  events,  it's  unlucky."  said  Rosemary,  laughing 
too.  The  laugh  was  on  her  lips ;  there  was  none  in  her  eyes.  Eric 
watched  her. 

"Why  is  it  unlucky  to  anticipate?"  he  inquired.  He  was  not 
just  then  disposed  to  let  the  subject  drop. 

"I  deny  it's  unlucky.  Anticipation  is  the  breath  of  life," 
answered  Gina. 

"But  hardly  fair  to  love,"  interjected  Upton.  "I  thought  you 
were  one  of  those  broad-minded  people  who  believe  that • 

"All's  fair  in  love  and  war,"  put  in  Eric,  addressing  Upton 
directly.  He  detested  this  type  of  conversation,  and  was  coldly 
furious  at  being  thrown  in  the  fellow's  company;  he  was  deter- 
mined to  be  rude.  Faith  threw  him  a  restraining  glance. 


THEIR  DREAM  343 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Harry,"  said  Rosemary,  adding,  "But  how 
nice  to  be  all  together  again!" 

"All?"  murmured  Eric,  staring  hard  and  straight  at  her.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  cruel  streak  in  him. 

Rosemary  coloured  and  looked  away  quickly. 

"We've  had  great  fun  this  summer,  though,  spite  of  your  wars 
and  rumours  of  wars,"  Gina  prattled.  "Faith,  you  are  a  mad 
creature  to  bury  yourself  in  that  hospital  and  appear  at  the  end 
of  everything — even  amid  a  peal  of  wedding  bells.  You  can't  think 
what  a  lot  you've  missed." 

"I  had  to  help  mother." 

"Help  mother!  Mother 's-help,  you  mean.  It's  inhuman.  It's 
not  possible.  You're  not  going  back  there,  though."  She  turned 
to  Eric.  "The  thing  must  be  seen  to,  Eric.  It  must  be  taken  in 
hand.  She's  wasting  'er  bloomin'  youth!" 

"But,  Gina,  you  forget  I  rather  like  it  on  the  whole,"  Faith  pro- 
tested; "at  least,  I  have  so  far.  All  the  same,  I'm  looking  round 
for  a  doll's  house  now,  if  anybody  can  produce  one." 

"You  must  take  a  house,  Faith,"  Rosemary  urged  with  what 
seemed  to  Eric  a  rather  insincere  enthusiasm.  "And  why  not  come 
into  -the  Italian  tableaux?  We're  just  beginning  rehearsals." 

"Mrs.  Sinclair  would  make  a  divine  St.  Ursula  for  the  Car- 
paccio  thing,"  suggested  Upton.  "Of  course,  she's  a  Madonna," 
he  said  in  an  undertone  to  Gina. 

"I  think  not,  thanks,"  replied  Faith — for  her,  shortly. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  she  might  put  her  foot  on — in  it?"  querieH 
Eric.  Faith  cast  at  him  another  imploring  glance. 

"I'm  sure  Mr.  Upton  would  design  you  a  halo  or  a  background 
with  equal  facility,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  wife.  This  referred 
to  the  young  poet's  newly-acquired  talent  for  designing  fancy 
dresses  to  which  Gina  Maryon  had  lately  been  drawing  the  com- 
pany's attention. 

Upton  smiled  defiantly. 

"You'll  help,  anyway,  won't  you,  Arthur?"  demanded  Gina. 

"Oh!  of  course,  I'd  love  to,"  replied  Cornwallis  from  the  back- 
ground. He  was  Gina's  latest  protege.  Already  she  had  roped 


344  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

him  in  to  the  Maryon  circle,  while  into  the  constellation  of  "Rays" 
and  "Stars"  she  had  roped  his  poetry.  He  had  "plenty  in  him," 
she  declared — only  he  wanted  drawing  out." 

At  this  moment  a  tall,  thin,  gliding  woman  with  the  face  of  a 
ghost  and  large-pupilled  dark  eyes,  strikingly  but  scantily  attired  in 
jewels  and  embroidery,  sailed  up. 

"Gina,"  she  remarked,  "I  want  food." 

"Venetia,  my  angel!"  the  young  lady  of  the  house  exclaimed  in 
tones  of  treble  amazement,  pointing  dramatically  at  three  lonely 
sandwiches  that  sat  on  a  plate  in  the  middle  of  the  completely 
denuded  buffet.  "You  don't  expect  to  find  food  in  this  house! 
Haven't  you  brought  anything  with  you — in  a  paper  bag? 
You  might  know  by  now  there  never  is  anything  to  eat  at  these 
gatherings.  But  have  these" — she  proffered  the  sandwiches — "and 
welcome,  as  they  say.  And  if  you  want  to  damn  anybody,  damn 
the  Food  Controller." 

"Damn  the  Food  Controller,  then!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Romane 
passionately.  "But  he  can't  prevent  one  drinking  champagne. 
Any  oysters?" 

Music  had  now  begun  again,  and  the  group  broke  up. 

Mrs.  Romane  marshalled  to  her  side  a  certain  young  soldier- 
politician  whom  she  had  "in  tow."  Rosemary  and  Eric  went  off  to 
dance  together.  Faith  and  Cornwallis  followed  suit.  Gina,  for 
her  part,  declared  that  she  was  far  too  hot  and  exhausted  to  dance. 

"Come  along,  Harry!"  she  cried.  "We'll  go  up  to  my  apparte- 
ment  and  have  a  talk.  That's  the  only  quiet  place." 

And  upstairs  they  went,  brushing  past  several  sitting  couples,  up 
two  flights  of  the  crooked,  unmannerly  stairs  of  those  lesser  Lon- 
don houses. 

It  was  a  very  small  room,  Gina's  own ;  it  looked  like  the  inside 
of  a  biscuit-box,  the  walls  and  ceiling  being  silver-papered,  without 
picture,  ornament,  or  relief.  Severity — simplicity,  were  the  topical 
keynote  of  the  Maryon  "cult."  It  was,  she  explained  to  people,  a 
reaction  from  a  renaissance  decorative  style  that  had  prevailed  for 
nearly  a  year.  The  artistic  life  of  the  Clan  Maryon,  indeed,  sub- 
sisted on  reactions.  So  this  room  was  just  black  and  silver.  An 


THEIR  DREAM  345 

immense  black  divan  with  large  round  black  cushions  occupied  the 
whole  of  one  side.  The  carpet  was  black.  There  was  a  black 
lacquer  cabinet  at  the  farther  end.  On  the  black  mantelpiece  were 
three  silver-wrought  images — two  Madonnas  and  a  crucifix.  The 
writing-table  was  black,  relieved  by  a  gleam  of  silver,  and  so  were 
the  chairs. 

"You  haven't  seen  it  since  it  was  done  up,  have  you,  my  Harry  ?" 
said  Gina  sprawling  on  the  capacious  sofa.  "Isn't  it  rather 
attractive  ?" 

"You  always  had  a  feeling  for  atmosphere,  Gina.  Black  has 
a  wonderful  sense  effect.  One  could  create  here — wonderfully. 
One  could  dream — and,  what's  more,  one  could  think." 

"Give  me  a  cigarette,"  she  said.    "One  of  the  new  ones." 

"You  like  them — the  new  ones?  They're  strong.  All  right  for 
me,  but  look  out  they  don't  send  you  off.  She  had  one  the  other 
evening — the  little  wretch,  she  insisted  on  it.  It  sent  her  straight 
off  to  sleep." 

"Who—our  Rosebud?" 

"Yes.  I'm  sorry  we  gave  her  so  much  as  a  hint  of  it  that  night; 
she's — such  an  infant." 

"Why,  the  Rosebud's  not — smitten,  is  she?" 

"She's  always  asking  to  see  your  birthday  present."  He  laughed 
and  produced  from  his  waistcoat-pocket  a  small  gold-enamelled 
snuff-box  of  the  Louis  Quatorze  period.  "It's  ever  since  that  night, 
you  know.  But  I  only  give  her  the  cigarettes." 

Gina  said,  "Give  it  me!"  opened  the  box,  took  a  pinch  as  one 
takes  snuff,  and  handed  it  back.  "You  must  get  me  some,"  she 
added.  "I've  nearly  run  out." 

"Be  careful,  though,  for  God's  sake,  with — her.  One  doesn't 
want " 

"Talking?  I  agree.  She's  very  much  of  a  child  still,  isn't  she 
— an  adorable  child?  But  I  suppose  you're — educating  her?" 

"I  spend  most  of  the  time  looking  at  her.  That  head  and  neck—- 
the profile — it's  a  dream." 

"You're  happy  together,  then  ?  Don't  forget  who  you  owe  it  all 
to!" 


346  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

"I  owe  it  to — the  one  and  only " 

He  took  one  of  her  hands,  and  pressed  it. 

"And  so  it's  all  comfortably  settled?" 

"Practically." 

"Practically?"  There  was  a  note  of  surprise,  real  or  simulated, 
in  her  voice. 

"Well— it's  understood,  I  think " 

"But  not  absolutely?" 

"You  see,  she's  such  a  child.  She  doesn't  know  her  own  mind* 
It  would  never  do  to  force  the  pace " 

"What  about  Lady  C.?" 

"She's  all  over  it.    She's  all  right." 

"Wants  your  money,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  well,  Gina!  Hang  it — really!"  The  remark  was  ob- 
viously not  a  palatable  one.  "Don't  put  things  quite  so  crudely." 

The  volatile  creature  took  no  notice. 

"Still  I  don't  get  there.  .  .  .  She's  fond  of  you?" 

"Of  course.  She's  got  a  temper,  though.  I  tell  you,  she's  a 
little  spitfire  sometimes.  It's  part  of  her  attraction,  I  suppose. 
But — in  time — I  think  she'll  understand  me." 

"What's  the  difficulty  then?" 

"I  don't  think  she  knows  herself.    She  can't  make  up  her  mind." 

"But  you  are  taking  her  in  hand?" 

"I  try  to.  You'd  do  it  better,  though.  I  must  say  she  is  rather 
perverse.  One  mentions  art  or  music  or  poetry  and  she  answers  in 
terms  of  fox-hunting  and  salmon-fishing.  One  shows  her  a  Matisse 
or  a  Vlaminck,  and  she  says  it  looks  like  a  picture-puzzle  upside- 
down.  Well !"  Upton  spread  the  palms  of  his  hands  with 

a  hopeless  gesture.  "However,  I  think  in  time  she'll  understand 
things." 

"She  liked  'Rays'—and  'Stars.' " 

"Yes — and  didn't  understand  a  word  of  them." 

"She's  in  love  with  you,  though — with  us — with  all  of  us?" 

"She's  in  love  with  excitement." 

He  lit  another  cigarette,  and  then  they  sat  very  close  together. 
The  heavy  scent  that  filled  the  room  sank  like  a  velvet  pall  about 


THEIR  DREAM  347 

them.  They  revelled  in  such  moments.  He  convulsively  squeezed 
her  arm. 

"I  adore  this  perfume,"  he  said. 

"I  think  I  shall  marry  you  after  all." 

"Nobody's  ever  understood  me  as  you  have,  Gina." 

"And  so  you'll  go  and  marry  her  and  forget  all  about  me?" 
She  held  him  with  her  violet  eyes. 

"Never  that,"  he  declared.  "I  couldn't.  You've  taught  me — a 
lifetime.  But — why  wouldn't  you  have  me  .  .  .  then?" 

"Because  I  knew  I  had  got  you  already,"  she  answered  promptly. 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  they  sat  very  close  together. 

Gina  said  unexpectedly: 

"What  about  the  'also  ran'?" 

"Knoyle?" 

"Yes." 

Upton  laughed. 

"Washed  out." 

"Completely?" 

"Utterly." 

"Never  mentioned?" 

"Never  mentioned.     Why  do  you  ask?" 

"You  scored  there!" 

"Yes."  A  self-satisfied  smile  crossed  his  unhealthy  face,  and 
the  two  lustreless  eyes  shone.  "Yes — I  think — I  scored  there." 

"Quite  sure?" 

"Well !" 

"You  wouldn't  have  pulled  it  off  without  me,  you  know." 

"Perhaps  not " 

"It's  really  I  who've  scored." 

"How?" 

"Never  mind.  'A  woman  never  forgets.'  Is  that  Marie  Corelli 
or  Ethel  M.  Dell?  It's  true." 

"And  never  forgives?" 

"Oh,  yes!  When  the  scores  are  level — with  a  balance  on  the 
right  side!" 

"You  defeat  me,  ma  chere  Gina." 


348  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"Oh,  well!  It's  my  affair.  And  now.  .  .  .  I'm  not  sure 
whether  I'm  sorry." 

"For  him?" 

"N-n-n-o.     I  don't  think — for  him." 

"He  was  mad  about  her." 

"Funny  boy.  Queer  mixture  of  weakness  and  strength,  clever- 
ness, quixotry,  childishness.  I've  never  quite  got  to  the  bottom  of 
him." 

"Oh!    He's— a  fool." 

"I  wonder." 

"He  might  have  married  her " 

"If  he'd  stayed  at  home." 

Upton,  nettled,  rapped  out: 

"No — she  simply  didn't  care  enough  for  him  to  stick  to  him." 

"I  think — I  rather  admire  him." 

The  young  man's  eyes  shot  malice.  But  he  did  not  have  time  to 
reply.  Gina  purred: 

"So  you  still  like  little  me  ...  a  little  bit?" 

She  glanced  up  at  him  sideways  like  a  bird.  Her  old  love 
responded. 

"More — a  little  more  than  that.    After  all — you're  Gina." 

He  leant  across  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 


§3 

The  handle  of  the  door  turned  and  both  started  back.  They 
acted  perfectly,  and  when  Rosemary  and  Eric  entered  were  dis- 
cussing the  Italian  tableaux. 

Gina,  as  though  breaking  off  the  subject,  said: 

"End  of  a  dance,  Rosebud?" 

"No,  we've  just  come  to  sit  it  out.    I'm  going  soon,  Harry." 

"Let's  have  a  dance,  Gina." 

"Yes,  Eric  dear.    The  one  after  next?" 

"Thank  you." 

"Come  on,  Harry!    We'll  go  down." 


THEIR  DREAM  349 

Rosemary  and  Eric  took  the  previous  couple's  place  on  the  black 
divan. 

Another  couple  entered  and  took  possession  of  two  chairs  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room.  Eric  said: 

"What  a  weird  room  this  is!  I  haven't  been  up  here  before. 
Why  does  she  fill  it  with  this  horrible  scent?" 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  Rosemary  looked  round  indifferently. 
"She  says  it  makes  one  fee!.  It  makes  me — sleepy  .  .  .  I'm  not 
sure  I  do  like  it,  though." 

For  several  minutes  they  did  not  speak.  They  were  content  to 
listen  to  the  snatches  of  conversation  that  reached  them  from  the 
other  end  of  the  room. 

"You've  heard  about  Dick  and  Sybil?"  She  was  what  is  called 
ingenue  in  "simple  white";  he  a  mere  boy.  "I  think  it's  all  fixed 
up.  You  know  they  disappeared  for  hours  at  Ranelagh  and  turned 
up  looking  frightfully  self-conscious?  Of  course,  that  put  the  lid 
on  it." 

She  laughed— "girlishly." 

.    "Everybody  was  so  cross  at  being  kept  waiting.     It's  been  the 
talk  of  London  ever  since." 

The  voices  wandered  off  into  something  else.  Rosemary  and 
Eric  smiled  without  speaking. 

Rosemary  said: 

"That's  exactly  the  way  we  used  to  talk  three  years  ago,  Eric 
— and  you  used  to  do  tricks  with  matches  and  glasses  of  water  and 
knives  and  forks  and  things.  Remember?" 

"I  suppose  we — I  mean  I — did.    I'm  ashamed  of  myself !" 

"Oh,  you  were  very  infantile,  Eric!  What  a  lot's  happened 
since!  I  wish  it  hadn't,"  she  sighed.  "I  suppose  it's  the  war. 
You've  changed.  I've  changed." 

Another  fragment  of  talk  came  to  their  ears. 

".  .  .  Oh!  That  affair!  Of  course,  you've  been  away.  That 
came  to  an  end  ages  ago.  Violet  broke  it  off.  Oh!  no  particular 
reason.  You  know  what  she  is.  Besides,  it's  the  fashion.  He's 
one  of  the  dull,  faithful  sort.  I  suppose  she  just  got  bored  with 


350  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

having  him  hanging  about.  .  .  .  But  come  along!  I  can't  resist 
this  divine  tune." 

The  two  on  the  sofa  glanced  at  each  other  with  that  involuntary 
movement  which  often  results  from  a  simultaneous  thought.  Eric 
looked  quickly  away.  He  felt  uncomfortable.  It  was  difficult 
ground. 

"Eric,  old  boy,"  said  Rosemary  suddenly.  "I'm  so  awfully  glad 
about  you  and  Faith." 

"Yes — we're  lucky,"  he  agreed. 

"You  deserve  to  be.  You're  a  wonderful  person.  I've  been 
wanting  to  see  you — to  talk  to  you." 

His  blue  eyes  opened  wide. 

"Charmingly  said.     But  why?" 

"You're  a  wonderful  friend." 

"Well— one  hopes  so." 

"That's  where  you  are  wonderful.  I  think  you  could  carry  the 
world  on  your  shoulders — and  all  the  little  people  in  it." 

"I'm  not  Hercules,  my  dear  Rosemary — or  was  it  Atlas?" 

"After  all  that's  happened.  .  .  ." 

"Still— what?"    But  he  guessed. 

"You  know  about  us — Adrian  and  me?    You  must." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  that."    He  shifted  his  feet  uneasily. 

"Eric,  I  couldn't  speak  to  anybody  but  you  about  it.  I  know 
he  tells  you  everything,  and  we've — we've  known  each  other  such 
ages,  haven't  we?" 

"Of  course  we  have.    I'm  his  friend  and  I'm  yours." 

"Well,  I've  never  had  a  moment's  peace  since — since  that  dread- 
ful time.  All  this  rushing,  racketing  life — it's  nothing  to  me,  and 
yet — it's  everything.  It's  necessary  to  me,  I  can't  do  without  it. 
All  these  people — I  don't  know  whether  I  really  like  them — or 
what.  They're  not  the  people  I  was  brought  up  with.  But  I 
can't  get  away  from  them.  They're  necessary  to  me,  too.  I  want 
to  forget  —  forget  —  forget  —  I  don't  know  what  —  just  every- 
thing  " 

"My  dear  Rosemary "    Eric  felt  he  must  gain  time  to  deal 


THEIR  DREAM  35 1 

with  the  situation.  "It's  over  and  done  with  now,  anyway — isn't 
it?  Why  worry?" 

"Is  it  over  and  done  with  ?"  She  spoke  hurriedly,  intensely,  and 
with  a  strange  sorrowful  passion.  "Is  it?  That's  what  I  want  to 
know.  Can  things — of  that  sort — ever  be  over  and  done  with 
between — two  people — like  him  and  me?" 

Eric  began  fingering  his  moustache.  He  was  thoroughly  per- 
plexed, unprepared  alike  for  an  outburst  or  a  confession.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  say  or  how  to  say  it.  He  glanced  at  his  com- 
panion uneasily  and  was  disturbed  by  the  change  in  her  face  and 
voice.  Fresh,  yes,  and  beautiful  she  still  was,  yet  a  change  was 
unmistakably  there.  Gone  the  old  simplicity,  the  old  gaiety — yet 
not  entirely  gone.  Gone  the  old  challenging  independence — yet,  at 
moments  there.  He  even  thought  he  detected  a  trace  of  some 
cosmetic  on  cheeks  and  lips,  a  hint  of  something  unnatural  about 
the  eyes.  Knowledge  and  a  suggestion  of  painful  experience  ha3 
taken  the  place  of  innocence  in  this  girl's  face. 

"Is  it  over  and  done  with?"  she  repeated.  "I  can't  make  up  my 
mind  till  I  know  that.  I  cannot — and  I  will  not.  .  .  .  But  if 
anything  should  happen — to  either  of  us,  Eric — I  should  like  him 
to  know  how  I  feel — that  I  do  feel  about  it.  If  he  knew  ...  if 
he  knew  .  .  .  he'd  understand.  He  must  have  suffered,  Eric. 
No  one  who  cared  for  me  as  he  did He  did  care  desperately." 

"He  did."  Eric  was  in  no  mood  to  spare  her.  She  flinched  at 
his  crude  brevity. 

"Somehow" — a  wistful,  almost  foreboding  look  crossed  her  face 
— "somehow  we  always  just  missed  each  other,  he  and  I.  I  dunno 
— the  world's  such  a  queer  place.  People  seem  to  be  always — 
just  missing — or  just  crossing.  ...  I  never  got  to  the  deepest 
depths  in  him.  There's  something  dreamy  and  far-off  about  him 
sometimes,  and  he  used  to  come  out  with  things  I  didn't  under- 
stand. I  failed  him  there,  too.  ...  He  never  understood  me 
either — quite.  It's  only  in  the  last  month  or  two  I've  begun  to 
understand  myself.  The  war's  revealed  such  a  lot — the  real  nature 
of  people  and  things  and — oneself.  It's  made  one  think — and  it's 
made  one  dread  to  think.  We're  queer,  of  course — all  the  Mey- 


352  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

nells  are.  Well,  you  know  the  family  history?  ...  I  s'pose  I'm 
queer  too." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  my  dear  Rosemary,  nonsense!" 

"We  just  missed  each  other — somehow.  But  I  want  him  to 
know  that  always,  always  he's  something  different  and  apart  to  me 
— from  anybody  else — even  if  he  can't  ever  forgive  me — ever." 

"Of  course,  he'll  forgive  you — if  he  hasn't  already." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.    I'm  not  so  sure  he  even  ought  to." 

"I'll  talk  to  him.    I'll  tell  him  all  you've  said." 

"Thank  you,  Eric.    I  shall  be  happier." 

Up  the  stairs  and  through  the  open  door  floated  the  strains  of  a 
valse,  thinly  rendered  by  a  mandoline.  And  a  girl's  voice  sang. 

"That  must  be  Gina,"  Eric  suggested.  "The  band's  gone  to 
supper,  I  suppose." 

They  listened  in  silence — Rosemary  intently. 

"Oh,  Eric!"  she  whispered  presently,  "that's  the  thing  we  danced 
to — he  and  I — at  the  Astoria  years  ago.  And  he  asked  the  name  of 
it — and  now — I  can't  remember."  Her  fingers,  clasping  and  un- 
clasping, betrayed  her  agitation.  "He  said  it  haunted  him.  .  .  . 
To  me,  it's  like  an  echo  of  his  voice,  but — I  can't  remember." 

"Let's  go  and  dance  to  it,"  said  Eric  briefly. 

He  did  not  look  at  her,  did  not  need  to.  He  had  heard  in  her 
voice  the  knell  of  a  great  illusion;  he  apprehended  her  great  mis- 
take. 


§  4 

They  danced.  All  danced.  But  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
girl's  weak  singing  and  the  solitary  mandoline,  there  seemed  no  joy 
of  music  in  the  room,  only  the  pattering  feet  of  ghosts  or  autumn 
leaves  that  swirl  on  any  garden  path. 

When  it  was  over  there  was  clapping.  Rosemary  and  Eric 
descended  to  the  hall.  Upton  stood  waiting. 

"I've  got  a  taxi,"  he  said.    "It's  raining." 

"Raining?"     A  sort  of  tired  disillusionment  spoke  in  the  girl's 


THEIR  DREAM  353 

voice,  though  she  had  recovered  her  self-possession.  "Well,  any- 
way, let's  go.  ...  I'm  tired." 

One  of  those  rapid  changes  so  characteristic  of  the  English 
climate  had  taken  place.  And  instead  of  the  sultry  summer  night, 
a  cold  air  came  creeping  into  the  house  through  the  wide-open 
door,  and  they  could  hear  the  plash  of  the  rain  without. 

Farewells  were  said.  When  they  were  in  the  taxicab  and  splash- 
ing homeward,  Upton  sat  close  to  Rosemary,  as  earlier  he  had  sat 
close  to  Gina,  and  took  her  hand. 

"Give  me  a  hug,  my  Rosebud,"  he  purred.  "You  look  beautiful 
beyond  words  to-night." 

Her  reply  was  almost  impatient.  "No,  Harry.  You  can  do 
something  for  me,  though.  I  want  to  sleep.  I  want  to  dream. 
I  want  to  be  happy.  .  .  .  Give  me  some  of  that — delicious  stuff 
that  makes  one  forget." 

"Was  urns  tired,  then?    It  isn't  good  for  little  girls,  though." 

"I  don't  mind.    Only  give  me  some." 

"It's  a  bargain,  then,"  he  laughed. 

"Oh!  very  well,"  she  answered  wearily. 

From  his  waistcoat  pocket  Upton  produced  the  Louis  Quatorze 
snuffbox. 

"There.    That's  for  a  naughty  girl." 

She  took  a  long,  deep  breath  as  Gina  Maryon  had  done — but 
a  longer  and  a  deeper  one — until  he  tried  to  snatch  the  box  away. 

"No,  Harry!  Give  it  me!  Let  me  keep  it,"  she  pleaded.  "I 
want  it."  There  was  a  struggle.  "Oh,  do,  please!  Make  me  a 
present  of  it!" 

"Well,  then,  you'll  have  to  pay  for  it.  ...  A  kiss.  Two  kisses. 
.  .  .  Half  a  dozen  kisses.  ...  As  many  as  I  want!" 

He  laughed  vibrantly,  holding  her  hands,  which  still  clasped  the 
snuff-box. 

"Oh!  no,  Harry!    Just  .  .  .  give  it  me!" 

"But  why  should  I,  little  tyrant?  It's  not  good  for  children — 
or  angels." 

"Well— out  of  friendship." 

"Friendship  has  its  obligations  and — rewards!" 


354  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"No,  Harry— please!  .  .  ." 

"One  can't  have  anything  for  nothing  in  this  world,  my  Rosebud. 
And  that  little  box  is  worth  a  lot  of  money." 

"I  know.    But  give  it  me,  Harry!" 

"On  conditions." 

"No,  Harry— don't  be  horrid!" 

"On  conditions." 

The  taxicab  was  slowing  up. 

"Here  we  are  at  Grosvenor  Mansions." 

"Oh,  well  .  .  .  dash  it!" 

Leaning  out  of  the  window,  he  ordered  the  cabman  to  drive  to 
another  address. 


Within  the  House  of  Maryon  the  dance  went  on. 

Black  shadows  were  thrown  upon  white  blinds,  so  that  to  one 
watching  from  without  it  might  have  seemed  that  spectre  danced 
with  spectre,  shadow  with  shadow,  ghost  with  ghost — all  belonging 
to  a  world  not  of  this  world. 

Like  ghosts  or  spectres  the  dancers  swirled,  dipped,  and  ran — 
turned  and  turned  as  the  music  called  to  them.  Once  or  twice 
they  stopped,  then  went  on  again. 

"Way  down  in  Tennessee."  "Down  where  that  Swanee  river 
flows" — the  ragtime  music  lured  them,  mocked  at  them  or  beck- 
oned. The  black  men  sang — sang  of  the  old  days  and  the  cotton 
fields  and  the  slow,  warm  gloaming  of  their  native  South,  their 
love  and  the  rising  moon.  They  shouted,  called  out,  stamped  on 
the  floor,  played  madly,  madly  on  their  banjolines  and  castanets. 
They  thumped  the  drum,  thumped  each  other,  made  sounds  like 
fog-horns,  whistled,  threw  the  sticks  away — and  stopped. 

All  stopped. 

Two  lovers,  caught  up  in  a  dream,  wrapt  in  their  youth,  im- 
mersed in  one  another.  .  .  . 

Pale  and  sickly  grew  the  lights;  pale  and  ashen-grey,  the  faces. 
.  .  .  Drab  daylight  stumbling  in. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Their  Awakening 

IN  spite  of  the  early  hour — barely  seven-thirty — Victoria  Station 
wore  an  air  of  bustle  and  animation. 

Rain  was  still  falling.  The  roofs  of  the  taxicabs  glistened,  and 
their  wheels  thrust  through  the  mud  with  that  hiss  which  is  so 
characteristic  of  a  wet  morning  in  London.  The  drivers  wore 
shiny  capes,  as  did  the  policemen  at  the  station  entrance;  all  who 
alighted  wore  waterproofs  or  coats. 

The  station  was  lively  with  khaki;  parties  of  men  in  heavy 
marching  order,  carrying  rifles  and  small  bags  or  packages,  officers 
wearing  bulky  haversacks,  no  two  alike,  yet  all  partaking  of  a 
similar  air  of  imminent  departure;  relations  and  friends,  the  pre- 
dominant note  among  whom  was  black. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  noise — engines  shrieking,  steam  escap- 
ing, whistles  blowing,  orders  being  shouted,  newspaper-boys  call- 
ing, bells  clanging.  "This  way  to  Number  One  leave  train!"  or 
"This  way  to  the  breakfast  train!"  All  these  sounds  were  multi- 
plied by  the  high  vault  of  the  station  roof. 

Through  the  crowds,  without  hurry,  Captain  and  Mrs.  Eric 
Sinclair  made  their  way.  The  former,  in  uniform,  carried  a  news- 
paper in  his  hand,  wore  a  waterproof,  and  had  a  haversack  slung 
on  his  shoulder.  Trim,  polished,  and  alert,  he  looked  as  though 
he  had  made  a  leisurely  toilet  after  a  long  night's  rest.  Faith  wore 
a  tweed  coat  and  skirt.  They  walked  the  length  of  the  train  until 
they  reached  the  breakfast  car,  in  which  Captain  Sinclair,  who  hafl 
previously  reserved  a  seat,  deposited  the  haversack,  the  waterproof, 
and  the  newspaper. 

He  then  descended  to  the  platform  and  stood  beside  his  wife.    A 

355 


356  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

number  of  other  officers  stood  around,  conversing  with  friends  who 
bore  the  unmistakable  stamp  of  farewell  upon  their  faces.  But  it 
was  characteristic  of  these  two,  newly-made  man  and  wife,  that 
they  betrayed  no  emotion — might,  to  all  outward  appearance,  have 
been  setting  out  to  spend  a  week-end  at  Brighton.  Beyond  the 
broad  semicircle  formed  by  the  span  of  the  station-roof,  they  looked 
out  at  the  straight,  slow  rain  and  the  murky  London  gloom,  into 
which  countless  lines  of  shiny  metal  disappeared. 

"Have  you  got  the  chocolate  and  sandwiches,  Eric?" 

"Yes." 

"And  the  flask?" 

"Yes." 

"And  the  little  locket?" 

"Of  course."     He  patted  his  chest. 

"By  the  time  you  come  home  I  shan't  have  any  hair  left."  Faith 
smiled. 

Captain  Sinclair  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Give  my  love  to  Adrian,"  his  wife  said. 

"I  will.  And  by  the  way — but  I  can't  tell  you  here.  I'll  write. 
.  .  .  Rosemary,"  he  urged;  "be  a  pal  to  her.  She  wants  one." 

"Yes—if  she'll  let  me." 

There  was  a  renewed  bustle,  redoubled  shouting.    A  bell  rang. 

"Take  your  seats,  please!" 

Captain  Sinclair  turned  to  his  wife. 

"It's  good-bye,  my  dear." 

"Yes,  Eric."  She  spoke  with  a  kind  of  meekness,  as  though  there 
finally  surrendering  her  life  into  his  keeping. 

"Take  care  of  yourself.    Don't  work  too  hard." 

"Eric!" 

In  this  word  the  world.  .  .  . 

He  climbed  into  the  car,  others  pressing  after  him. 

A  whistle  blew,  doors  were  slammed. 

"Good-bye!  .  .  .  Good-bye!  .  .  .  Good-bye!" 

Two  pairs  of  blue  eyes  met  in  a  long  last  glance.  Two  hearts 
silently  bled. 


THEIR  AWAKENING  357 

That  was  Reality. 

The  train  glided  slowly  out  of  the  station.     The  women  hid 
their  faces  behind  veils,  handkerchiefs,  hands.    The  rain  fell.  .  .  . 
Outward  bound,  the  men  made  a  hearty  show  over  breakfast. 


CHAPTER  V 
Their  Morrow 


THIRTY-SIX  hours  had  passed. 

The  Third  Battle  of  Ypres  had  broken  out,  more  fierce,  more 
relentless  than  any  conflict  since  the  Somme. 

It  was  evening,  and  still  raining. 

Eric  Sinclair's  company,  as  part  of  the  battalion  in  reserve, 
was  lying  in  recently-captured  German  trenches  along  the  eastern 
bank  of  the  Yser  Canal.  Eric  himself  had  just  arrived  and,  with 
Adrian  Knoyle,  was  about  to  take  the  company  into  action,  Burns 
and  Fotheringay  being  left  out,  the  former  in  reserve,  the  latter 
laid  low  with  trench-fever. 

The  company-commander  was  sitting  under  a  dangerously  tilted 
piece  of  zinc,  addressing  his  non-commissioned  officers,  as  was  his 
habit  before  battle.  All  round  lay  broken  rifles,  pieces  of  equip- 
ment, shreds  of  clothing,  bombs,  grenades,  food-tins,  every  sign, 
in  fact,  of  a  hurried  evacuation  on  the  part  of  the  Germans.  There 
was,  indeed,  hardly  a  square  foot  of  ground  that  had  not  been 
churned  up  by  a  shell. 

"We  are  going  up,"  Eric  said  in  concluding  his  little  address, 
"to  consolidate  the  objective  captured  to-day,  that  is,  the  line  of 
the  Steenbeek  river.  We  may  get  shelled  on  the  way.  We  shall 
have  to  be  careful  and  quiet,  and  ready  for  anything.  We  shall 
have  to  dig  like  the  devil.  There'll  probably  be  a  counter-attack. 
At  seven-fifty  we  move.  Packs  on!" 

They  tramped  off  by  platoons.  At  the  same  time  the  rain  ceased, 
and  the  late  sun  began  to  cast  fretful  beams  across  the  vast  battle- 
field. The  evening  was  quiet.  An  occasional  shell  whined  drearily 

358 


THEIR  MORROW  359 

overhead  but  seldom  fell  near.  Small  parties  of  men  passed — men 
coming  out  of  the  battle,  filthy,  nerve-shaken,  and  scarcely  able 
to  drag  their  feet  through  the  mud.  Guides,  orderlies,  and  pack- 
mules  passed  at  first.  Then,  as  they  struck  out  across  the  grey 
waste,  picking  their  way  in  single  file,  all  sign  or  suggestion  of  life 
vanished.  Socket-like  shell-holes  whose  sunken  eye-balls  were  dis- 
coloured glistening  pools,  gaped  and  grinned  on  either  hand.  They 
passed  through  a  wood,  the  trees  of  which  resembled  skeletons, 
skeletons  of  giant  men,  maimed,  killed,  and  rotted  where  they  stood, 
stark  upright  except  for  those  that  had  fallen,  crushed  down  by 
superhuman  force. 

Soon  the  laden  men  called  for  a  halt.  "Halt  and  close  up!" 
"Pass  the  word  down  when  you're  all  closed  up!"  These  were 
the  oft-repeated  cries. 

Eric  Sinclair  marched  with  the  leading  platoon,  Adrian  with 
the  hindermost.  The  latter  was  plunged  in  thought,  immersed 
in  the  atmosphere  of  his  surroundings.  As  though  to  reflect  the 
complexion  of  these  thoughts,  his  gaze  presently  lit  upon  the  recum- 
bent figure  of  a  dead  soldier  lying  in  a  shell-hole.  It  was  a 
complete  picture  of  human  loneliness.  The  man  had  been  for- 
gotten, the  burial  parties  had  passed  him  by.  He  lay,  as  he  had 
fallen,  backwards,  the  golden  light  of  a  stormy  sunset  shining  full 
upon  his  face — the  arms  thrown  out — the  legs  slightly  apart — the 
fighting  order  meticulously  exact  even  to  the  respirator  at  the 
"alert"  and  the  grenades  sticking  out  of  his  pockets — the  rifle 
lying  a  few  feet  away  as  it  had  dropped  from  his  hand — the  steel 
helmet  on  its  crown  as  it  had  rolled  from  his  head. 

The  rest  trudged  on  phlegmatically,  not  even  noticing  so  common 
an  object,  but  Adrian's  mind  dwelt  upon  the  figure,  embodiment 
of  his  thoughts  through  so  many  months.  At  first  he  tried  to 
call  it  back  to  being,  to  evolve  its  beginnings  and  its  personality, 
to  envisage  the  things  that  had  once  made  it  human,  to  rekindle, 
as  it  were,  the  cold  ashes  of  its  life.  Was  this  a  lively  man 
perhaps,  much  given  to  laughter;  was  he  a  great  talker  or  a  wag, 
townsman  or  countryman — the  latter,  to  judge  by  build  and  fea- 
tures; a  peasant,  perhaps,  from  some  remote  English  village  like 


360  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

his  own,  where  the  hills  watch,  steeped  in  the  age-long  passion 
of  the  soil?  Had  he  those — a  father  or  mother,  sweetheart  or 
wife — who  through  five-and-twenty  years  perchance  had  doted 
upon  that  once-mobile  face,  upon  every  hair  of  that  bare,  bedraggled 
head,  upon  that  once-eager  body  now  of  the  clay,  clay,  so  soon 
to  return  to  the  soil  again?  Held  he  but  a  few  hours  since  in 
his  living  heart,  the  hopes,  the  lockings-backward,  the  solemn  terror 
of  ordinary  men;  and  as  the  dark  drew  on  and  as  the  midnight 
before  last  crept  towards  dawn,  had  he  said  to  some  comrade, 
"Well,  if  I  come  through  this " 

The  darkening  landscape  presented  itself  to  Adrian  as  some 
seared  and  dreadful  human  face  wrought  by  its  passions,  horrors 
and  sins  to  a  last  extremity. 

With  bowed  heads  and  backs,  he  (and  they  all)  trudged  on  like 
figures  of  the  Christ  in  Ghirlandaio's  Procession  to  Calvary,  the 
rifle  of  each  being  his  cross. 

§  a' 

They  waded  through  semi-liquid  mud.  It  grew  dark.  The 
guide  was  not  confident  of  his  way :  who  could  be  in  that  trackless 
waste?  A  caution  was  passed  down  to  move  quietly.  Occasional 
shots  were  heard  and  once  or  twice  a  stray  bullet  droned  overhead. 
A  wild  moon  rose. 

Quite  suddenly — a  ditch  full  of  men.  Whispering  and  strung-up 
now,  they  lay  down  on  the  top  of  the  ground,  fearing  to  be 
seen  in  the  moonlight;  those  in  the  ditch  clambered  out.  The 
enemy's  outposts  were  reported  to  be  not  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  away.  The  situation  was  hurriedly  explained  to  Captain 
Sinclair  by  an  impatient,  overwrought  officer;  then  the  relieved 
company  filed  out.  The  half-dug  ditch  being  in  three  sections, 
there  was  not  room  for  all.  Some  would  have  to  stay  outside  till 
the  digging  began.  It  was  difficult  to  discern  anything  at  first. 
Only  a  row  of  splintered  trees  forty  or  fifty  yards  in  front  in- 
dicated the  whereabouts  of  a  small  stream.  A  road  glistening 
white  descended  the  slope  behind  and  cut  the  trench-line.  At  a 


THEIR  MORROW  361 

German  blockhouse  of  reinforced  concrete  some  two  hundred  yards 
in  rear  the  company-commander  established  his  headquarters.  It 
was  a  mere  cell,  stoutly  constructed  but  facing  the  enemy;  its 
narrow  seat  barely  offered  room  for  two. 

Midnight  approached.  It  was  imperative  before  daylight,  Eric 
said,  to  make  trenches  of  the  ditches,  to  deepen  and  connect  them 
up,  to  find  out  the  lie  of  the  land,  to  get  in  touch  with  the 
companies  on  right  and  left,  to  find  out  just  what  lay  in  front. 
The  Germans,  doubtless  not  wishing  their  whereabouts  to  be  dis- 
covered, remained  silent;  they  even  sent  up  no  lights.  Opposite 
the  Left  Flank  company's  sector  was  a  bridgehead  where  it  was 
decided  to  place  an  outpost. 

Very  soon  the  men  were  strung  out  in  a  long  shadowy  line. 
Their  stooping,  moiling  figures  could  be  seen  working  at  the  ditch. 
The  clink  of  the  spades  became  the  dominant  sound. 

Adrian  and  Eric,  taking  an  orderly,  made  a  detailed  examination 
of  the  line,  trying  to  get  their  bearings,  trying  to  make  contact 
with  other  units.  In  this  they  failed,  for  the  sector  appeared  to 
be  an  isolated  one,  its  flanks  in  the  air.  They  only  found  a  black, 
motionless  stream  bordered  by  stunted  willows,  which  grinned 
gnomishly.  Once,  creeping  through  wastes  of  shell-pitted,  ashen 
grass,  three  Germans  sprang  up  like  startled  hares  on  a  downland 
pasture.  A  voice  shouted,  "Was  ist  dass!"  and  a  revolver  shot 
was  fired  before  they  disappeared  into  the  shadows.  Eric's  runner 
fell  wounded.  It  was  near  daylight  when  they  reached  their  tiny 
blockhouse  and  told  the  men  to  leave  off  work. 

§3 

Overcome  by  weariness,  after  the  routine  reports  had  been  sent 
off,  the  two  friends  fell  into  a  deep  sleep  on  the  narrow  seat  of 
their  little  den.  They  awoke  to  the  full  light  of  day.  The  cool 
quiet  of  night  had  given  place  to  a  harsh  glare,  to  the  buzzing 
of  bluebottles,  to  a  noisome  stench  and  heat.  Nor  was  this  stench 
the  usual  stench  of  that  nether-world,  but  something  more  foetid, 
clinging,  something  from  which  there  was  no  escape.  The  guns 


362  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

were  thundering.  They  seemed  tuned  to  different  pitches  and 
different  rates  of  firing — the  rapid  bark  of  the  field-guns,  the 
deep-toned  echoing  reports  of  the  howitzers,  followed  by  rapidly- 
succeeding  concussions.  So  with  the  shells,  which  never  ceased  tt> 
whistle  and  race  overhead.  In  their  crude  symphony  they  struck 
all  keys,  now  whining  and  almost  plaintive,  now  creaking  and 
hollow  in  sound,  now  roaring  like  an  express  train.  Those  which 
burst  close  at  hand  were  scarcely  noticed  amid  the  universal  din. 
Only  when  an  explosion  occurred  within  forty  or  fifty  yards  there 
came  a  crash  and  the  earth  quaked  beneath  the  unsupported  con- 
crete shelter,  which  itself  trembled  from  top  to  bottom. 

All  through  that  day  a  sense  of  foreboding,  of  imminent  personal 
catastrophe,  never  left  Adrian.  If  anything  it  increased  as  the 
hours  went  by.  There  was  the  perpetual  threat  of  a  counter-attack, 
of  course,  but  with  Eric  beside  him  he  felt  no  apprehension  on 
that  score.  Eric's  presence  alone  gave  an  extraordinary  sense  of 
competence  and  security.  He  sat  curled  up  in  his  corner,  dozing 
or  sleeping.  There  had  as  yet  been  no  opportunity  for  conversation 
between  them,  the  company-commander  having  returned  from  leave 
only  an  hour  or  two  before  they  marched  away.  He  was  obviously 
very  tired. 

Yet  as  though  in  response  to  his  friend's  thoughts,  Eric  now 
woke  up. 

"What  about  some  food?" 

A  couple  of  sandbags  contained  all  their  comestibles  and  cooking 
utensils.  One  by  one  these  were  extracted.  Water  to  make  tea 
and  boil  the  eggs;  how  to  heat  it?  A  patent  spirit-cooker:  how 
to  light  it?  And  such  an  abominable  conglomeration  in  a  sandbag 
as  never  was  known!  The  salt  and  the  sugar  had  merged  in 
one;  the  tea  and  the  marmalade  had  joined  forces;  the  margarine 
had  formed  an  illicit  association  with  the  candles;  the  bread  had 
assumed  a  delicate  sulphur  shade  as  the  result  of  intercourse  with 
Flanders  mud.  What  squalor!  What  distaste!  Sandbags,  mud, 
paper,  tins,  and  the  remains  of  food !  Eric  nursed  the  spirit-cooker 
on  his  lap;  Adrian  tended  it.  The  water  would  not  boil  but 


THEIR  MORROW  363 

it  simmered,  yes,  it  simmered.  Into  it  they  plunged  the  eggs, 
then  the  tea. 

"What  a  mix-up !"  said  Eric  with  a  laugh.  "I  must  say  I  prefer 
it  to  Gina  Maryon's  supper,  though." 

"Bad,  was  it?" 

"There  wasn't  any." 

"Oh!  well,  life's  all  hogwash  and  this  is  a  pig-sty,"  Adrian 
remarked  gloomily.  He  never  even  pretended  to  see  the  funny 
side  of  squalor. 

"Better  hogwash  than  hunger.  And  very  soon  you'll  be  thank- 
ing your  stars  for  the  pig-sty.  Cheer  up,  you  confounded  old 
pessimist!" 

No  sooner  had  Eric  said  this  than  heavy  shelling  began.  A 
couple  of  high-explosives  hit  the  ground  with  a  roar  and  a  thud 
just  outside  the  entrance  to  the  blockhouse,  without  bursting. 
Smaller  shells — the  sort  known  in  the  Army  as  "pig-squeaks"  and 
"whizz-bangs" — burst  in  quick  succession  close  behind  it.  Shrapnel 
cracked  repeatedly  above  the  trenches  in  front  where  the  men 
lay.  German  aeroplanes  like  huge  hornets  with  red,  black,  and 
white  bodies  and  fish-tails  appeared  flying  low  over  the  line,  and, 
following  upon  the  "tac-tac"  of  machine  guns,  flights  of  bullets 
came  "pinging"  to  earth.  Eric  put  his  head  out  and  making  a 
funnel  with  his  hands,  yelled  in  the  direction  of  the  trench  line. 

"Shoot,  there!  Shoot  back  at  'em!  What  in  God's  name  are 
you  doing?  Lost  your  rifles,  or  what?" 

He  himself  seized  his  orderly's  rifle  which  happened  to  be  lean- 
ing against  the  blockhouse-wall  and  started  blazing  at  the  nearest 
aeroplane  until  Adrian  pulled  him  inside. 

"Do  you  want  to  get  sniped?"  he  demanded  angrily,  "because 
it  bores  me  seeing  you  do  that  sort  of  thing." 

Eric's  impulsive  exposures  of  himself  always  irritated  him;  it 
was  Eric's  one  weakness  and,  Adrian  often  thought,  would  lead 
to  his  destruction.  Soon  a  rattle  of  musketry  and  the  "rat-tat- 
tat-tat"  of  the  Lewis  guns  proclaimed  that  the  company-com- 
mander's exhortation  had  had  the  desired  effect.  The  aeroplanes 
sheered  off,  and  the  British  artillery,  near  and  far,  began  to  roar 


364  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

and  roll  until  there  was  such  a  vast  chorus  as  presaged  unmis- 
takably the  beginning  of  a  general  engagement. 

A  large  red  face  shading  to  purple  now  peered  in  at  the  narrow 
entry;  it  was  that  of  the  Company  Sergeant-Major. 

"Them  last  shells  fell  very  close,  sir,"  he  stuttered,  a  note  of 
alarm  in  his  voice;  "it  looks  like  big  show  beginning." 

"We're  warned  to  expect  a  counter-attack,  you  know,"  Eric 
answered.  "Get  the  S.O.S.  ready  and  keep  a  sharp  lookout  on 
the  trench.  Blow  your  whistle  if  you  see  anything.  They  won't 
attack  before  dusk.  Say  the  Lord's  Prayer  and  drink  your  rum 
ration !" 

"Sir!" 

The  brilliant  countenance  turned  away  without  a  smile. 

"Wait  a  minute — are  you  pretty  well  off  in  front  there  ?" 

"As  well  as  anywhere,  sir.  I  think  you'd  be  safer  there,  too. 
It's  only  the  back-bursting  shells  can  touch  you.  This  place  won't 
keep  out  a  whizz-bang." 

"Oh,  well! — we've  only  one  life  to  lose.  We'll  stay  here  for 
the  present." 

The  face  withdrew. 

"Lord!"  yawned  Eric,  stretching  himself,  "I  must  get  another 
forty  winks.  Then  you  can  have  a  turn.  Wake  me  if  anything 
happens." 

He  curled  up  again  and  shut  his  eyes. 

But  a  good  deal  of  Eric's  sang-froid  on  these  occasions  was 
simulated,  as  Adrian  had  long  since  discovered.  And  from  the 
fact  that  his  friend's  eyes  soon  opened  again,  though  he  did  not 
move,  he  knew  that  Eric  had  no  intention  of  sleeping. 

There  was  reason  for  anxiety.  As  a  unit  they  were  completely  cut 
off.  Behind,  on  either  side,  the  bare  open  glacis  of  the  Salient 
extending  for  three  miles;  in  front  a  massing  enemy  with  only 
the  narow  Steenbeek  stream  between.  The  field  telephone  was  cut 
by  shell-fire;  no  runner  was  likely  to  survive  the  intervening  cur- 
tain of  shells. 

"Keep  well  into  your  corner,  Adrian!" 

The  foundations  of  their  concrete  dwelling  trembled  as  three 


THEIR  MORROW  365 

big  shells  burst  outside  in  quick  succession.  Reddish-brown  iron 
splinters  drove  hissing-hot  into  the  mud  at  their  feet  and  pattered 
upon  the  concrete  roof;  loose  earth  and  stones  came  rattling  down 
like  hail. 

Always  the  sun  glared  pitilessly  upon  that  stricken  spot.  The 
guns  never  ceased  to  roar  and  boom,  the  buzz  of  the  bluebottles 
at  their  scavenging  made  a  mocking  monotone.  The  two  officers 
became  more  and  more  aware  of  the  stench  that  grew  with  the 
noon  day  heat,  deriving  as  it  did  from  human  bodies  and  poisoned 
earth,  from  clinging  fumes  of  gas,  from  a  mixture  of  mud,  old 
sand-bags,  stale  food  and  stagnant  water.  Did  they  look  out, 
they  saw  beside  their  shelter  a  greenish  slimy  pit  from  which  a 
German  boot  and  a  German  leg  protruded — mute  reminder  of 
that  which  formed  part  of  the  sucking  mud  beneath.  The  pill- 
box must  have  been  captured  after  a  bloody  fight;  they  became 
aware  that  its  immediate  neighbourhood  was  littered  with  the  sodden 
dead.  Here  the  lethal  gas  had  reached  them,  hither  maimed  and 
failing  the  defenders  had  dragged  themselves  to  die.  Here  at  last 
the  British  infantry  must  have  bayonetted  or  shot  them  down  as, 
darting  out,  they  threw  up  their  hands  and  shouted  for  mercy. 

Nor  was  it  long  before  wounded  men  began  to  trickle  back. 
Some  irrational  idea  that  they  would  be  safer  near  their  company- 
commander  seemed  to  possess  them.  Arms  shattered  by  shrapnel, 
wounded  heads,  fragments  of  flesh  torn  from  legs  and  bodies — 
little  of  the  legendary  stoicism  of  the  battlefield  was  here.  They 
whimpered,  groaned,  and  moaned  while  the  stretcher-bearers 
dressed  their  wounds  behind  the  blockhouse.  They  called  for 
water  and  relief  from  their  pain. 

The  two  officers  took  it  in  turns  to  keep  watch.  As  far  as 
could  be  seen  the  battle  was  raging  along  the  whole  front.  Grey 
smoke  eddied  across  the  landscape,  white  puffs  of  smoke  flecked 
the  blue  sky.  In  the  foreground,  a  shattered  house  or  two  of  the 
village  of  Langemarck  showed  through  flame-shot  smoke.  Now 
the  English  shells  came  racing,  racing,  roaring  and  hissing  over- 
head as  though  fearful  of  not  reaching  their  goal;  now  the  Ger- 
man, The  British  field-guns  began  to  fire  short,  killing  and 


366  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

wounding  their  own  men  but  there  were  no  means  of  communica- 
tion until  dark.  All  calibres,  all  sizes,  all  keys  of  sound  and 
rhythm.  How  they  hurried,  how  grimly  pursued  one  another! 
Great  iron  cases  of  explosive — twelve-inch  calibre  and  larger — 
plunged  into  the  ruins  of  Langemarck,  throwing  up  at  one  time 
as  many  as  a  dozen  brick-red  or  sulphur-yellow  columns  of  dust, 
masonry,  and  earth  fifty  or  sixty  feet  towards  the  sky. 

Alone  of  any  building  the  tower  of  the  church  defied  smoke 
and  flame,  friend  and  foe  alike,  silently  lifting  its  scarred  white 
finger  in  protest  up  to  heaven. 


§  4 

Thus  the  afternoon  wore  by.  The  two  friends  sat  side  by 
side  in  their  blockhouse,  occasionally  looking  out  and,  through 
field-glasses,  watching  the  bombardment.  They  spoke  little. 

Towards  evening  a  lull  came,  and  they  talked. 

"I  hate  this  uncertainty."     Adrian  lit  a  cigarette. 

"I  think  it's  bound  to  come  at  dusk  or  daybreak,"  said  Eric. 
"I  only  wish  we'd  dug  out  the  flanks  and  linked  up  last  night. 
It's  those  two  gaps  I'm  afraid  of." 

"We  shall  have  to  stop  'em  in  front,  if  we  stop  'em  at  all." 

"Well,  that  wiring  Number  Fourteen  Platoon  did  is  pretty 
good.  That  ought  to  make  'em  think  if  they  try  to  get  through 
there." 

"Yes,  and  they've  got  to  cross  the  river." 

They  did  not  speak  again  for  several  minutes.  Adrian  was 
thinking. 

"All  this  must  be  pretty  damnable  for  you,  old  boy,"  he  said 
at  length.  "Why  didn't  you  get  a  stomach-ache  and  stay  a  bit 
longer?  A  'pill-box'  on  the  Steenbeek  is  not  the  best  way  of 
rounding  off  a  honeymoon." 

"Yes,  it's  a  bit  rough  at  first,  this — after  that.  .  .  .  But  of 
course  it  couldn't  last  for  ever." 

Eric,  too,  lit  a  cigarette  with  some  deliberation. 


THEIR  MORROW  367 

"You've  told  me  nothing  about  the  wedding  yet,"  Adrian  re- 
minded him.  "I  suppose  all  the  rank  and  fashion  were  there?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  laughed  Eric,  "the  'best  people'!" 

"You  spent  the  honeymoon  at  Sheringham  ?" 

"Yes,  and  gave  Faith  golf  lessons.     She  ended  by  beating  me." 

"Gina  Maryon  gave  a  carouse  of  some  sort  in  your  honour, 
didn't  she?  I  wonder  you  submitted  to  that!" 

"I  had  to.    The  woman  ordained.    Faith  obeyed.    I  was  taken." 

"Who  was  there?    The  elect?" 

"No,  chiefly  Philistines,  like  ourselves.  I  think  most  of  the 
'chosen'  have  gone  back  to  Jerusalem  or  Salonika  or  somewhere 
out  of  the  way." 

"Was  it  amusing?" 

"Well — it  was  astounding.  I  hadn't  been  to  any  shows  of  that 
sort,  you  know,  since  the  war.  It  fairly  showed  up,  the — what 
d'you  call  it? — the  mentality  of  the  Maryon  crowd.  One  used 
to  think  of  them  as — well,  'scintillating'  a  bit,  at  any  rate,  in  the 
Arden  days;  one  was  occasionally  impressed  by  Gina's  indiscre- 
tions. The  other  night  they  looked  like  rather  overfed  goldfish 
floating  in  a  glass  bowl.  They've  taken  out  copyright — in  them- 
selve"s.  Gina  is  getting  up  tableaux  by  way  of  showing  herself  off, 
Upton  is  designing  the  backgrounds,  and  all  the  rest  are  lending 
a  hand  in  the  intervals  of  dancing  and  tennis.  They  live  on  a 
merry-go-round." 

He  paused  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Frankly,  I  hate  the  whole  unhealthy  crowd.  There's  some- 
thing about  that  house,  about  the  girl  herself,  about  that  prodigious 
Venetia  Romane,  about  all  of  them — I  don't  know — it's  like  sip- 
ping absinthe  in  a  hot-house." 

One  name  trembled  on  Adrian's  lips.  It  was  of  no  use  pre- 
tending to  himself  or  to  Eric  that  it  was  utterly  banished  yet — or 
forgotten. 

The  same  name  trembled  on  Eric's  lips.  But  were  the  sur- 
roundings and  were  the  circumstances  propitious  for  what  he  had 
to  say?  Should  he  not  rather  wait  until  they  came  out  of  the 
line  and  went  back?  . 


368  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Sinclair  was  debating  this  point  in  his  own  mind  when  a  five- 
point-nine-inch  shell  landed  almost  in  the  entrance  to  the  block- 
house with  such  terrific  force  and  so  great  a  blow-back  of  air 
that  both  were  hurled  off  their  narrow  seat,  and  the  little  cell 
became  filled  with  gun-powdery  fumes.  The  food,  equipment, 
and  all  the  squalid  contents  of  the  place  were  thrown  together 
in  even  worse  confusion  than  before.  And  when  they  helped  each 
other  up  they  saw  that  the  whole  of  one  end  of  the  "pill-box" 
had  sagged  over  with  the  subsidence  of  earth. 

"Are  you  all  right,  Adrian  ?  .  .  .  Come  on,  let's  get  out  of  this, 
or  we  shall  have  the  whole  damned  thing  on  top  of  us." 

They  crawled  with  difficulty  round  to  the  back  of  the  pill-box, 
were  sniped  at  en  route,  and  found  the  Company  Sergeant-Major, 
two  stretcher-bearers,  an  orderly,  and  a  servant  squatting  in  a  shell- 
hole  with  the  wall  of  the  block-house  as  a  bulwark  against  the 
blow-back  of  shells.  A  number  of  wounded  lay  near.  The  two 
officers  remained  there  till  dusk. 

The  bombardment  intensified,  and  the  roar  of  the  guns  from 
either  side  made  connected  speech  out  of  the  question.  But  as 
soon  as  the  light  had  waned  sufficiently  to  hide  them  from  the 
keen  eyes  watching  the  exposed  slope,  they  crept  out  into  the 
open.  The  German  shells  had  now  begun  to  fall  further  back. 
The  night  sky  was  lit  up  with  gun-flashes;  shells  rolled  through 
the  air  with  a  peculiar  moan ;  wafts  of  pineapple-gas  came  to  them 
on  a  suffocating  breeze.  Eric  gave  the  word  to  put  on  respirators. 

With  nightfall,  his  presentiment  returned  upon  Adrian  more 
strongly  than  ever. 

A  runner  glided  up — like  a  messenger  from  another  world — 
with  a  note  from  Headquarters  to  the  effect  that  a  counter-attack 
on  a  big  'scale  was  to  be  expected,  the  Germans  having  been 
observed  massing  in  the  forest  of  Houthulst;  and  that  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  defensive  scheme,  the  line  of  the  Steenbeek  river 
was  to  be  held  at  all  costs. 


THEIR.  MORROW  369 

§5 

Like  shadows  themselves  they  crept  through  shadows  down  into 
the  trench.  They  found  the  men  standing  to  arms.  The  stretcher- 
bearers  were  lifting  out  the  wounded.  Three  or  four  dead  lay 
outside  the  trench. 

There  could  be  no  rest.  Exhausted  as  the  men  were  from 
exposure  to  the  full  heat  of  the  sun,  parched  from  lack  of  water, 
and  terribly  tired — for  the  bombardment  had  precluded  sleep  and 
their  limbs  were  cramped — they  set  to  work  with  all  the  energy 
they  could  command.  Somehow  or  another  the  shallow  ditches 
had  to  be  deepened  and  extended.  French  wire  had  to  be  run  out  ; 
as  on  the  previous  night,  a  post  was  sent  forward  to  guard  the 
bridgehead. 

They  dug  demoniacally.  They  dug  with  a  sense  of  imminent 
peril,  of  complete  isolation,  of  mutual  inter-dependence.  All,  it 
was  realised,  depended  upon  good  comradeship  now,  upon  the 
faith  of  one  man  towards  another,  upon  the  staunchness  of  each 
to  all,  and  of  all  to  one — the  company-commander.  The  bombard- 
ment gradually  increased  as  the  night  wore  on.  Again  the  gas 
carrfe  down — mustard-scented  this  time,  choking,  warm.  Their, 
eyes  began  to  smart;  it  was  difficult  to  see.  Ogres  laboured  in 
the  gloom;  satyrs  with  monstrous,  swollen  heads  toiled  with  the 
spade;  spectral  shapes  crept  to  and  fro.  The  straining  eyes  of 
sentries  kept  unceasing  watch  through  the  blurred  glasses  of  their 
gas-gear. 

Midnight  came.  .  .  . 

Adrian  and  Eric  stood  together  above  the  line  of  diggers,  watch' 
ing  the  moonlit  scene.  All  around  the  "banging"  and  "booming" 
of  the  batteries  went  on  behind  dancing  pin-points  of  flame,  whilst 
a  couple  of  hundred  yards  away  beyond  the  stream,  beyond  the 
naked  stumps  of  trees,  crash  after  crash  amid  showers  of  sparks 
showed  where  the  British  shells  burst.  Miles  away  towards 
Poperinghe  bomb  explosions  reverberated  amid  a  far-off  humming 
of  aeroplanes;  the  reflected  glare  of  ammunition-dumps  burning 
lit  up  the  western  sky. 


370  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

As  they  watched,  a  covey  of  bullets  suddenly  whipped  past  their 
heads — one,  two,  three,  four.  The  men  digging  paused  and  looked 
up;  any  new  sound  caused  them  to  look  up.  Away  to  the  right 
a  splutter  of  rifle-fire  broke  out  like  sticks  crackling  on  a  newly- 
kindled  fire.  It  spread  along  the  further  riverbank,  little  spurts 
of  flame  darting  from  the  shadowy  background  of  undergrowth. 
Ill-directed  bullets  sang  high  overhead.  The  shells  began  to  race 
over  in  a  now  unbroken  symphony.  The  voices  of  the  gun  gradually 
swelled  into  a  vast  reverberating  chorus. 

Eric  turned  to  Adrian.  "This  sounds  like  the  real  thing,  doesn't 
it?"  He  told  the  Sergeant-Major  to  get  the  men  to  their  fire- 
positions. 

Within  seconds  every  man  had  thrown  down  his  spade,  seized 
his  rifle,  and  was  crouching  up  against  the  newly-made  parapet. 
All  along  the  line  the  rasp  of  fixing  bayonets  was  heard,  followed 
by  the  click  of  safety-catches  being  pushed  forward.  Bandoliers 
were  emptied,  each  man  laying  a  pile  of  cartridge-clips  beside 
him  on  the  parapet.  The  automatic  gun-teams  lay  in  a  bunch 
up  against  their  weapons,  each  No.  I  gunner  fingering  the  trigger 
whilst  the  man  next  him  a  little  in  rear  held  a  fresh  magazine 
ready  to  jam  on  the  post. 

Excitement  grew  among  the  men.  Exclamations  broke  out  in 
the  moments  that  followed  such  as,  "Roll  on,  Fritz!  You're 
going  to  get  it  hot  this  time,"  or  "Give  me  plenty  of  room,  Billy.. 
I  don't  want  to  miss  any,"  or  "I'll  give  'im  something  to  take 
home  with  'im." 

Figures  bent  double  scurried  towards  them  through  the  moon- 
light. 

"Don't  fire!  Don't  fire!  It's  the  post  coming  in  from  the 
bridgehead." 

Eric  intercepted  them. 

"Seen  or  heard  anything?" 

"Yes,  they're  coming  down  through  the  fields  in  open  order — 
hundreds  of  them.  We  could  hear  them  talking."  The  young 
corporal  in  charge  was  almost  incoherent  with  excitement.  "Rejoin 
your  platoons  1'* 


THEIR  MORROW  371 

Eric  maintained  an  air  of  detached  interest  in  the  proceedings 
and  presently  strolled  off,  saying  that  he  proposed  to  take  up 
his  position  on  the  road  which  divided  the  trench-sector  in  half 
and  whence  the  whole  field  of  action  could  be  surveyed.  Adrian 
jumped  down  into  the  trench  among  his  men. 

German  machine-guns  from  half-a-dozen  hitherto  unsuspected 
points  now  began  to  reinforce  the  crackle  of  the  rifles,  the  col- 
lective sound  being  a  deep  metallic  bass.  The  bullets,  though  high, 
were  evidently  directed  point-blank  at  the  trench  itself,  the  idea 
doubtless  being  to  keep  the  defenders'  heads  down.  Here  and 
there  a  man  sank  back  shot  through  head  or  chest.  Coloured 
signal-rockets  went  up  singly  from  behind  the  German  lines.  At 
a  word  from  Eric  the  white  spiral  of  the  British  S.O.S.  shot  up 
from  the  company-headquarters.  A  sound  of  faint  shouting  could 
be  heard  to  their  left.  Now  and  then  stray  shells  burst  near. 

No  shot  had  yet  been  fired  by  the  Left  Flank  Company. 
Through  the  tremendous  din  Eric's  voice  could  be  heard  giving 
cautionary  orders,  as  it  had  so  often  been  heard  on  the  field- 
range,  and  his  slight  figure  could  be  seen  by  every  man  in  the 
company  silhouetted  against  the  moon  above  them. 

"We're  here,  little  Percy!"  "Good  old  Strawberries-and- 
Cream!"  "The  old  firm  knows  what  it's  abaht."  Suchlike  ob- 
servations passed  between  one  man  and  another. 

Now  came  the  sound  of  bombs  being  thrown  a  little  way  off, 
the  gruff  explosions  puncturing  the  roar  of  musketry,  machine- 
guns,  and  artillery. 

"Hi!  Look!  They're  coming!  To  the  left — by  the  broken 
tree!  See  'em  move? — there!  there!  Why  doesn't  'e  let  go? 
They'll  be  right  on  top  of  us  in  a  minute!" 

Eric's  voice  could  still  be  heard. 

"Steady!  Wait  for  the  word !  Take  aim  when  you  fire !  Don't 
waste  your  ammunition!  Aim  at  the  foot  of  the  wire  in  front! 
Wait  for  the  word,  and  then  all  together!" 

Every  man's  cheek  pressed  against  the  stock  of  his  rifle.  Here 
and  there  bayonets  gleamed  in  the  moonlight.  The  shattering 


372  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

collaboration  of  machine-guns  and  artillery  increased.  Seconds 
passed.  .  .  . 

At  last  the  word  came. 

"Now  then!  Rapid— fire!  ...  Let  go!     Give  it  'em!" 

His  words  were  crushed.  A  roar,  like  the  hammering  of  a 
thousand  rivets  broke  from  the  whole  line  at  once. 

Adrian's  eyes  had  hitherto  been  fixed  on  Eric.  Seizing  a  rifle, 
he  now  rushed  to  the  parapet.  He  could  see  at  first  nothing  more 
substantial  than  a  few  strands  of  French  wire  in  front  and  twisted 
tree-stumps  grinning  out  of  the  mist.  Then  tentative  shapes  disen- 
tangled themselves  from  moonbeams  and  shadows  and  strands  of 
wire,  upon  which  they  seemed  now  to  dance  like  puppets  or  tight-rope 
walkers,  now  to  dart  this  way  and  that  like  blinded  rabbits.  From 
end  to  end  of  the  line  the  rattle  of  the  bolts  being  wrorked  made 
a  background  of  sound  to  the  furious  firing. 

The  whole  period  of  action  was  probably  less  than  a  minute. 
The  unreal  acrobatic  shapes  vanished  away  among  the  moonbeams 
and  shadows  as  intangibly  as  they  had  come.  All  knew  that  the 
attack  had  been  repulsed. 

Gradually  the  musketry  slackened — ceased.  A  lull  succeeded. 
The  big  guns  fired  spasmodically.  The  men  began  to  talk,  con- 
gratulate one  another,  speculate  as  to  the  number  of  Germans 
killed. 

Adrian  looked  round  for  Eric.  He  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
But  his  orderly  came  running  down  the  trench,  shouting  "Stretcher- 
bearer!  Stretcher-bearer!  The  Captain's  hit!" 


§6 

Eric  lay  out  on  the  road.  As  they  lifted  him  down  into  the 
trench  he  made  no  sound. 

"Where  are  you  hit,  Eric?"  Adrian  lived  a  lifetime  of  appre- 
hension in  these  moments. 

No  reply  came.  But  after  nearly  a  minute's  silence  a  voice  so 
weak  as  to  be  hardly  recognisable  said : 


THEIR  MORROW  373 

"Is  that  you — Adrian?  .  .  .  Have  you  stopped  Jem?"  The 
voice  rose  scarcely  above  a  whisper.  "Good." 

"For  heaven's  sake  where  are  you  hit?" 

"The  company  .  .  .  you're  in  charge  of  it.  ...  The  money — 
you'll  find  it  ...  in  my  valise." 

"I  know.  Don't  bother  about  that.  Only,  for  God's  sake, 
where  are  you  hit  ?" 

"In  the  chest,  I  think  .  .  ,  two  or  three  places.  .  .  .  I'm 
finished,  anyway.  .  .  ."  The  voice  sank  to  nothing. 

They  tried  to  raise  him  to  a  more  comfortable  position. 

"I  want — to  say  something " 

Another  pause.     Then: 

"Morphia — give  me  morphia!  .  .  .  and  put  an  M  on  my  fore- 
head." 

No  one  present  had  morphia,  a  recent  order  having  prohibited 
its  use  other  than  by  medical  officers. 

They  cut  away  the  coat  and  shirt.  In  doing  so  a  little  locket 
fell  out;  the  chain  was  broken.  A  tiny  punctured  wound  was 
found  above  the  heart,  another  in  the  back.  It  became  evident 
that  life  was  ebbing  fast. 

"The  Captain's  hit!" 

All  down  the  line  the  men  could  be  heard  passing  the  news. 

"Little  Percy's  copped  it  at  last!" 

They  tried  to  give  him  brandy,  but  he  was  unable  to  swallow. 
Only  at  intervals  he  repeated  "Morphia!  Give  me  morphia  .  .  . 
and  put  an  M  on  my  forehead." 

Then  he  began  to  swear,  methodically  to  himself  as  he  some- 
times did  when  things  when  wrong.  The  moments  that  followed 
revealed  to  Adrian  the  infinite  preciousness  of  life's  feeblest  spark. 

At  last  Eric  articulated  his  name  in  the  voice  of  one  speaking 
from  a  long  distance. 

"Adrian!" 

"I'm  here.    I'm  close  to  you."     He  took  his  friend's  hand. 

"I  want  .  .  ."     The  voice  carried  no  further. 

They  raised  him  onto  a  stretcher. 

"Rose — Rosemary.     I  ...  damn  it.  .  .  ." 


374  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Pain  strangled  him.  Then  once  more,  "Morphia!  Give  me 
morphia!  .  .  .  and  put  an  M  on  my  forehead." 

The  boom  of  a  solitary  gun  was  succeeded  by  silence. 

A  shadow  passed  from  the  moon  and  the  misty  light  revealed 
that  Eric  Sinclair's  turn  had  come. 


CHAPTER  VI 
Intimation 

WAR  is  not  merciful.  It  recks  neither  of  place  nor  circumstance 
nor  time.  It  recks  nought  of  the  love  of  the  human  body,  of  the 
love  of  women,  of  the  claims  of  human  pity,  of  the  warmth  that 
life  once  held  and  that  death  alone  can  destroy  and  that  no  earthly 
power  can  give  back.  It  does  not  laugh,  it  does  not  weep,  it 
cannot  make  beautiful  or  make  good;  neither  can  it  destroy  the 
immortal  soul. 

There  is  a  plot  of  ground  set  in  the  northernmost  corner  of  the 
Belgian  plain,  within  sight  and  sound  of  the  great  Poperinghe- 
Dunkerque  road,  where  many  British  soldiers  lie.  No  tree  stands 
near;  no  grass  or  flowers  are  at  hand.  It  is  four-square,  bounded 
by  wire  and  iron  stakes  with  a  ditch  beyond.  It  is  reached  by 
a  straight  and  narrow  by-road  on  either  side  of  which  are  small 
and  symmetrically  cultivated  fields  and  bare,  sunbaked  areas  of 
ground  where  wooden  hospitals  stand,  or  used  to  stand.  The 
remains  of  horse-lines  and  camps  are  visible.  One  or  two  bright 
red  houses  may  be  seen  amid  hop-fields.  All  day  long  and  through 
the  night  the  clatter  of  motor-traffic  once  was  heard  upon  the 
neighbouring  paved  highway. 

It  is  an  area  of  bare  yellowish  soil  and  of  yellowish  wooden 
crosses  set  in  rows,  all  being  alike  except  that  some  partake  of  a 
paler  and  some  of  a  darker  hue.  Upon  each  is  inscribed  a  name, 
the  legend  "Killed  in  action/'  a  date,  and  the  letters  "R.I.P." 

To  this  place  were  borne  the  mortal  remains  of  Eric  Quentin 
Sinclair,  upon  a  stretcher  covered  with  a  Union  Jack;  and  there 
laid  to  rest.  On  that  August  day  the  rolling  of  drums  blended 
with  the  shrill  crying  of  fifes  in  the  Dead  March  in  "Saul."  There 

375 


376  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

followed  with  slow  step  and  in  long  train  his  brother-officers  and 
the  rank-and-file  who  had  served  beside  or  under  him. 

It  was  a  fresh,  sunny  afternoon — one  of  those  afternoons  charged 
with  a  premature  breath  of  autumn  when  billowy  white  clouds 
blow  across  a  sky  ethereally  blue  before  a  southwest  wind;  a  day 
full  of  life  and  hope,  the  which,  indeed,  gay  sunshine  alone  has 
power  to  impart  to  that  featureless  landscape. 

The  solid  ranks  of  khaki  formed  a  square  around  the  newly- 
dug  grave.  A  little  in  front  stood  the  chaplain.  All  heads  were 
bared.  Almost  at  Adrian's  feet — for  instinctively  those  around 
had  given  prior  place  to  him,  as  it  were  to  the  chief  mourner 
there — rested  the  stretcher,  with  its  Union  Jack  covering  the  still 
form  of  his  friend,  the  outlines  of  whose  body  were  nevertheless 
entirely  visible.  The  young  man's  inner  grief  found  no  outward 
expression.  His  predominant  feeling,  indeed,  was  of  wonderment 
and  awe  in  the  presence  of  that  so-great  mystery.  The  coverlet 
merely  added  to  his  sense  of  it.  He  could  not  see  the  face  he 
had  known  better  than  his  own,  any  more  than  he  could  hear 
the  voice  that  had  been  with  him  so  few  hours  before.  Those 
two  familiar  companions  were  for  ever  stilled.  For  ever!  They 
were  blotted  out ;  would  no  more  be.  Herein  lay  the  awe  and  the 
mystery.  It  was  inconceivable;  it  was  true. 

Prayer,  for  his  own  part,  he  neither  uttered  nor  required  nor 
yet  understood.  It  was  foreign,  hopelessly  foreign,  to  the  memory 
of  Eric,  who,  indeed,  had  never  mentioned  God — but  irreverently. 
That  was  a  fact,  not  excusable,  perhaps,  not  right,  nor  creditable 
in  him.  But  there  it  was.  Eric  had  lived  to  all  outward  seeming 
without  spiritual  inspiration  or  intimation;  had  experienced  sen- 
sually, materially,  and  even  cynically ;  had  died  with  a  string  of 
blasphemies  on  his  lips.  Adrian  felt  that  he  could  not  for  his 
part  approach  the  Almighty  in  his  friend's  behalf  now.  Were 
there  not  others  to  pray  for  this  soul's  peace? 

The  service  lasted  but  a  few  minutes.  They  sang  the  hymn 
"For  all  the  saints  who  from  their  labours  rest."  A  fine  hymn 
yet — how  strangely,  ironically  inapposite!  What  would  Eric  him- 
self have  said  could  he  have  known !  .  .  The  Last  Post  sounded. 


INTIMATION  377 

And  after  the  Union  Jack-shrouded  body  had  been  lowered  out 
of  sight,  each  officer  in  turn  marched  up  to  the  grave  and  saluted 
his  comrade's  memory.  They,  then,  talking  quietly,  walked  back 
along  the  road  to  the  camp. 

Adrian  lingered  behind.  He  wanted  to  be  alone,  entirely  alone, 
with  this  lifeless  husk  that  had  been  so  intimate  a  part  of  his  life, 
before  the  cold  earth  should  for  ever  come  between  them.  They 
were  at  any  rate  alone  together  here.  And  though  the  windy 
sunshine  and  the  gay,  swift-moving  clouds  might  seem  to  meek 
his  grief,  that  grief  was  precious  to  him  in  this  hour.  His  sense 
of  isolation  even  was  precious  to  him — such  a  sense  as  once  only 
he  had  known  before.  He  could  not  but  couple  Eric's  memory 
with  that  of  another  who,  too,  for  him  was  dead.  Both  gone — 
these  two  who  more  than  any  mortal  beings  had  counted  in  his 
life;  these  two  who  alike  had  shared  his  bravest  and  his  saddest 
moments,  whose  separate  intimacies,  each  a  sacred  thing,  could 
never  be  shared  and  never  could  be  recalled.  His  mind  paused 
there,  and  even  in  this  hour  of  bitter  desolation  a  figure  stood  at 
his  right  hand. 

It -was  Faith.  .  .  . 

Quite  distinctly  she  stood  beside  him — she,  the  solitary  link  with 
the  past,  whose  knowledge  of  the  departed  was  not  less  true  and 
deep  nor  less  enduring  than  his  own.  She  stood  beside  him  in 
his  thought,  she  who  had  represented  all  of  Eric's  young  emotional 
life;  and  knowing  her,  he  realised  that  in  this  thing  that  was  so 
utterly  common  to  them  both  she  would  feel  as  he  felt,  she  would 
think  as  he  thought,  and  that  their  tribute  would  be  a  united  one 
to  the  life  both  had  equally  shared. 

With  this  thought  he  turned  away  presently,  leaving  the  little 
cemetery  to  its  habitual  society  of  grave  diggers,  and  sparrows. 
He  would  often  return;  or  perhaps  he  would  never  return.  God 
knew,  and  perhaps  God  after  all  understood. 


CHAPTER  VII 
Time  and  Tide  Roll  on 


WHEN  the  first  shock  of  Eric's  death  was  overpast,  and  when 
again  the  weeks  and  months  began  to  roll  by  in  colourless 
monotony,  Adrian  Knoyle  found  that  life  held  new  purposes  for 
him.  For  one  thing,  he  became  heir  naturally  to  the  company 
which  had  been  Eric's.  To  uphold  that  Left  Flank,  not  only 
in  the  tradition  of  Eric,  but  in  face  of  the  common  duty  and 
necessity  of  the  time,  was  his  first  consideration.  Officers  of  ex- 
perience were  scarce.  More  and  more  depended  on  the  company- 
commanders.  Colonel  Forsyth  never  tired  of  impressing  this  upon 
them.  Adrian  Knoyle's  life  became  valuable  to  others — and  once 
again,  therefore,  to  himself. 

In  the  next  place,  there  was  his  duty  towards  Faith.  That 
was  a  duty  sacred  to  himself,  and  for  Eric's  sake  sacred;  it  drew 
them  steadily,  spiritually  nearer  together.  He  had,  of  course, 
written  the  bride-widow  an  account  of  Eric's  last  hours,  enclosing 
the  hair-locket  and  its  broken  chain.  He  received  in  reply  lines 
which  concluded  as  follows: 

".  .  .  Thank  you  for  the  locket.  I  cannot  write  much  now, 
because  in  a  sense  I  cannot  realise  it.  I  only  know  that  some- 
thing has  gone  utterly  out  of  me — for  ever  in  this  life.  I  think 
of  you  always,  Adrian.  We  two  who  are  left  must  go  on 
through  these  times  together.  Somehow  we  must  find  or  fight 
a  way  out.  .  .  .  Live,  my  dear,  live  for  his  sake  and  for 
mine.  .  .  ." 

378 


TIME  AND  TIDE  ROLL  ON  379 

She  added  that  she  knew  work,  work,  work  was  her  one  chance 
of  salvation,  and  that  so  soon  as  the  Arden  hospital  could  spare 
her  she  intended  to  go  to  France  and  take  up  "serious"  nursing. 

This  letter  brought  comfort;  it  brought  him  a  sense  of  com- 
panionship in  the  aridity  of  his  vast  loneliness.  He  felt,  as  she 
clearly  did,  that  so  far  as  this  thing  was  concerned,  they  two 
stood  together  apart  and  aloof  from  the  rest  of  Eric's  world.  If 
it  might  be,  he  must  live.  And  if  his  immediate  sense  of  personal 
isolation  increased  and  if  it  were  remarked  by  his  brother-officers 
that  he  every  day  became  more  silent,  more  morose  even,  on  the 
other  hand  he  once  again  felt  a  grip  on  existence,  became  conscious 
of  a  mission,  a  resolution.  He  re-found — his  soul. 

Perhaps  the  supreme  moment  of  desolation  had  been  when, 
arriving  back  from  the  trenches  at  dawn,  Eric's  servant,  who 
had  not  heard  the  news,  had  sought  him  out.  "The  Captain's 
things  are  all  ready,  sir.  Is  he  in  yet?"  And  entering  the  tent, 
Adrian  had  found  Eric's  sleeping-bag  laid  out  as  usual  beside  his 
own,  the  corner  of  the  blanket  turned  back  on  a  wooden  box, 
beside  the  bed  Eric's  peculiar  array  of  brushes,  hair-washes,  eau-de- 
Cologne,  and  toilet  equipment:  a  photograph  of  Faith.  For  three 
days  afterwards,  these  had  been  his  companions,  a  constant  re- 
minder of  what  once  was  and  would  never  be  again — until  he 
had  summoned  sufficient  resolution  to  pack  them  away  out  of 
sight. 

§   2 

They  got  along  very  well  together  in  the  Left  Flank  Company 
on  the  whole.  And  this  despite  the  fact  that  Burns  and  Fother- 
ingay  rarely  ceased  to  quarrel.  So  pronounced,  so  chronic,  and 
so  relentless  was  their  antagonism  that  without  it  the  life  of  the 
battalion  would  have  lost  much  harmless  entertainment.  Each 
played  joyfully  upon  what  he  imagined  to  be  the  other's  weak 
points.  For  if  the  elder  man  was  strong  in  self-control  and  a 
sort  of  gruff  determination,  he  was  plodding,  lacking  in  sense 
of  humour,  slow  and  ponderously  conscientious  in  his  military 


380  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

duties.  And  if  Fotheringay,  when  necessity  arose,  proved  himself 
an  efficient  and  even  brilliant  platoon-leader — of  which  fact  he 
never  himself  lost  sight — at  other  times  he  was  lazy  and  un- 
dependable. 

"You  are  an  extraordinary  cove,  Burns,"  the  young  gentleman 
would  begin  in  the  mess  whenever  he  had  nothing  better  to  do. 
"Tell  me,  have  you  ever  been  drunk?" 

"Don't  ask  silly  questions,  my  little  man!" 

"Tell  us  the  story  of  your  life,  Methusaleh." 

"If  you  talked  to  me  like  that  in  the  country  I  come  from, 
I'd  lay  you  across  my  knee  and  spank  you — not  so  as  to  hurt  you, 
of  course." 

"Would  you,  you  horrible  old  man!  I  dare  say  you'd  try. 
Well,  I  don't  come  from  the  country  you  come  from — and  I'm 
not  going  there.  Just  tell  us  how  many  times  you've  been  mar- 
ried?" 

"Didn't  they  ever  swish  you  at  Eton?  Thought  it  too  rough, 
I  suppose?" 

"Mind  your  own  business.  ...  Or  divorced?" 

"Can't  you  talk  sense  occasionally?" 

"Not  to  you.     You're  so  funny." 

"You— little  swine!" 

At  this  point  Burns  would  half  rise  from  his  seat  as  though 
to  seize  the  other,  whereupon  Fotheringay  would  leap  up  nimbly 
and  hold  a  chair  between  them. 

Often  there  was  horseplay. 

"Now  he's  getting  annoyed.  Dear  old  Burns!  Don't  get  rat- 
tled. Keep  your  hair  on!  Have  a  cigarette.  .  .  .  Don't  come 
near  me,  though,  you  old  brute." 

Convention !  Convention !  Convention !  This  was  Burns's  pet 
cockshy.  Forsyth,  the  Commanding  Officer,  was  conventional; 
Sutton,  the  junior  ensign,  was  conventional ;  Tritton,  the  adjutant, 
was  conventional.  He  spared  only  Adrian,  to  whom  something 
less  (or  more)  than  convention  was  allowed. 

"You're  becoming  enlightened,  Adrian,"  he  would  say.  "You're 
beginning  to  see  the  narrowness,  the  ludicrousness,  the  cut-to- 


TIME  AND  TIDE  ROLL  ON  381 

pattern  outlook,  the  falsity  of  standards  of  your  'Army  tradition.' 
One  day,  please  God,  you'll  be  emancipated.  By  the  end  of  the 
war  we  may  all  be  emancipated — even  that  kid  over  there.  I  see 
signs  of  it.  If  the  war's  done  any  good,  so  far,  it's  been  a  revela- 
tion of  the  truth  of  things.  Eh?  It's  washed  out  a  lot  of  your 
conventions  and  pretensions.  It's  made  men,  not  gentlemen,  and 
they're  what  count  nowadays — always,  in  fact.  I  learnt  twenty 
years  ago  when  I  first  went  to  South  Africa  to  judge  a  man  as 
a  man.  You  still  ask  whether  such  and  such  a  person  is  'quite 
a  gentleman.'  Oh!  it's — pitiful!  Who  cares  a  twopenny  damn 
where  Bertie  buys  his  boots  or  Cuthbert  has  his  hair  cut  or  whether 
Archie  aspirates  his  h's,  when  half  the  world's  tottering  and  the 
only  thing  that'll  save  it  is  CHARACTER.  Why  should  I  conform 
to  a  standard  set  up  by  whipper-snappers  like  Fotheringay  and 
Sutton?" 

At  this  (if  overheard)  there  would  come  shrieks  of  "Oh!  Oh! 
Shut  up!  Tell  him  off!  Lay  him  out!"  from  the  other  end 
of  the  mess  hut,  where  Fotheringay,  Sutton,  and  other  boon  com- 
panions were  sniggering  together.  Tritton — who  never  seemed 
to  have  much  to  do — would  sit,  hands  in  pockets,  smiling  with 
bovine  tolerance. 

"There's  the  old  man— off  again!  He  and  Adrian  have  started 
a  new  jaw  about  something.  Why  don't  they  give  him  a  gramo- 
phone to  talk  into?  The  worst  of  it  is  Adrian  takes  him  seriously." 

The  latter,  indeed,  had  suggested  that  although  War  was  a 
leveller,  in  a  business  like  the  Army  everybody  had  to  conform 
to  some  standard. 

"I  object  to  being  robbed  of  my  individuality,"  was  Burns's 
reply.  "It's  about  the  only  thing  I  haven't  given  up  to  come 
over  here.  Now  they  want  to  crush  it  out  of  me  and  make  me 
at  my  age  a  specialised  Sandhurst  product,  like  those  two  lads. 
That's  where  Steele  failed,  didn't  he?  He  never  recognised  his 
officers  and  men  as  individuals,  as  camouflaged  civilians  trying  to 
do  their  bit;  he  never  got  rid  of  the  old  peace-time  pre-war  idea 
that  all  subalterns  are  naughty  boys,  more  or  less,  and  have  to  be 
treated  accordingly.  Well,  he  never  got  the  best  out  of  his  men; 


382  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

they  hated  though  they  feared  him.  I've  always  heard  that  about 
Steele." 

And  he  went  on  to  say  that  the  Army  was  an  admirable  institu- 
tion for  teaching  people  how  to  do  nothing. 

Adrian  sympathised  with  Burns  without  caring  to  say  so  out- 
right and  without  sharing  Burns's  violence.  The  latter  was  after 
all  a  philosopher  with  the  courage  of  his  convictions;  a  curious 
mixture,  he  had  read  deeply,  if  pedantically — Lecky,  Herbert 
Spencer  and,  for  some  obscure  reason,  Machiavelli.  And  while 
he,  Adrian,  was  unable  to  discard  at  once  all  the  anaemic  prej- 
udices of  his  upbringing  and  earlier  environment,  it  was  with 
hostility,  with  resentment  even,  that  he  looked  back  upon  his 
mental  attitude  in  1914 — its  shallowness,  its  inanities,  its  conceits, 
and  its  shams.  He  wearied  not  a  little  at  times  of  the  effervescing 
self-satisfaction  of  Fotheringay  and  Sutton,  chiefly  because  it  repre- 
sented a  dead  self  resurrected.  Burns  himself,  after  all,  grizzled, 
grey-haired,  with  a  life-time  of  work  behind  him,  a  neglected 
farmstead  in  the  Orange  Free  State,  and  on  every  count  a  perfectly 
good  ticket  of  exemption  from  military  service — Burns  was  the 
flat  denial  of  that  bygone  illusory  existence. 

It  was  during  the  period  of  rest  which  they  spent  within  the 
shadow  of  the  Hill  of  Cassel,  after  the  Corps  had  been  withdrawn 
from  the  battlefield  of  Ypres,  that  these  controversies  took  place. 
The  battalion  here  reposed  for  a  brief  period  in  a  peaceful  oasis 
amid  the  harsh  desert  of  the  war.  Around  and  about  them  Time 
and  Tide  rolled  on.  It  was  in  the  middle  of  October  that  they 
returned  to  the  cows,  the  green  fields,  the  farmsteads,  the  slow- 
moving  pastoral  life  of  the  Flemish  plain.  A  month  went  by,  and 
something  stirred,  some  secret  word  went  forth,  and  they  were 
marching  steadily,  chiefly  by  night,  due  South.  From  late  Novem- 
ber to  the  second  week  of  December  in  this  year  the  first  Battle 
of  Cambrai  raged.  To  the  British  Division  fighting  for  possession 
of  the  village  of  Fontaine-notre-Dame,  which  lies  five  miles  north 
of  the  town,  they  lay  in  reserve.  Then,  early  on  a  still,  misty 
morning  in  the  vicinity  of  Havrincourt — the  crisis  of  the  battle 
having  seemingly  passed — they  were  awakened  by  the  thunder  of 


TIME  AND  TIDE  ROLL  ON  383 

a  great  bombardment,  stood  to  their  arms  without  breakfast,  an3 
a  couple  of  hours  later  met  scattered  bodies  of  infantry,  many  of 
them  unarmed,  tumbling  back  in  full  retreat,  proclaiming  indeed 
that  all  was  lost.  It  was  Adrian's  first  experience  of  the  British 
in  defeat,  and  the  spectacle  was  an  unhappy  one.  Rushed  forward, 
they  took  part  in  the  desperate  counter-attack  on  Gonnelieu,  recap- 
tured the  ridge,  were  pushed  back  again  a  whirl  of  bitterest  fight- 
ing. Fotheringay,  whose  enthusiasm  for  the  fray  had  been  un- 
bounded, was  wounded  by  a  fragment  of  shell,  and  went  to 
England  accompanied  by  the  strangest  possible  recommendation 
for  the  Military  Cross.  While  conscious,  he  never  ceased  to  jest 
and  swear.  Burns  and  Adrian  survived. 

This  was  the  latter's  first  ordeal  as  a  company-commander. 
Steadfastly,  though  indeed  laboriously,  he  set  himself  to  lead  his 
company  without  discredit.  Eric — and  it  may  be  Faith — stood 
behind  him  through  the  perilous  days  and  the  frost-bitten  nights 
of  the  climatically-hardest  fortnight  he  had  so  far  known.  On 
the  whole,  he  did  not  fail.  If  he  faltered  in  decision  or  execution, 
the  thought  came  to  him  of  the  unperturbed,  the  smiling,  the 
brilliant  figure  of  his  dead  friend ;  if  he  felt  nervous  or  hesitated — 
and  this  happened  more  than  once — the  thought  came  again,  and 
with  it  something  of  his  dead  friend's  faintly  contemptuous  atti- 
tude towards  irresolution.  Then  Faith  watching — she  who  de- 
pended on  him.  The  supreme  individual  test,  it  is  true,  did  not 
come;  it  was  the  Left  Flank  company's  turn  for  battalion  reserve. 
With  methodical  painstaking  care  he  made  his  dispositions;  but 
in  the  heat  of  the  engagement  events  decided.  His  resource,  his 
initiative  were  not  conspicuously  called  upon;  the  intuition  which 
he  lacked  was  not  required  of  him.  He  held  his  men  in  hand, 
and  avoided  entanglements;  he  kept  his  head;  he  led  correctly 
by  the  map.  As  for  death,  he  felt  a  simple  indifference. 

"What  a  queer  chap  he  is!"  somebody  remarked  of  the  Left 
Flank  commander  when,  after  the  fortnight's  fighting,  a  group 
of  officers  sat  round  a  brazier  in  the  grim  old  prison  of  Arras. 

"Oh,  he's  a  bit  off!"  said  Sutton,  Fotheringay's  friend,  toasting 
his  feet  at  the  brazier.  "He  really  is." 


384  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"No,  he's  suffering  from  too  much  war,  as  you  may  be,  young 
feller,  if  you  last  long  enough,"  Burns  retorted  warmly.  "That's 
what's  the  matter  with  him.  I  wonder  he  sticks  it." 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  care  a  tinker's  cuss  for  God  or  man — I'll 
give  him  that.  But  I  wish  he  wouldn't  be  so  damned  officious. 
He  came  poking  round  when  we  were  supporting  your  rotten 
company  at  Gonnelieu  and  told  me  off  as  if  I  was  a — a " 

"A  new-born  babe!"  Burns  suggested. 

"As  if  I'd  just  come  out,  simply  because  I  ventured  to  close 
my  eyes  for  a  second-and-a-half  when  everything  was  quiet.  Yes — 
blast  him!  I  know  what  I'm  doing  when  I'm  in  the  line." 

"That's  enough,  Sutton,"  remarked  the  adjutant  sharply. 
Things  had  grown  very  free  and  easy  in  the  battalion  nowadays 
compared  to  its  earlier  discipline.  And  Colonel  Forsyth  had  given 
Tritton  a  hint  to  this  effect. 

"All  of  which  you  richly  deserve,"  added  Burns.  "Supposing 
the  Germans  had  broken  through  just  then?  He's  seen  a  good 
deal  more  of  the  bloody  game  than  you  have.  Don't  forget  it !" 

"All  right!  All  right!  Keep  your  hair  on,  old  hotstuff!  I 
like  the  chap  all  right."  ("Very  good  of  you,  Jerry,"  commented 
Tritton.)  "Nobody's  saying  anything  against  him.  But  he  does 
overdo  it.  You  must  admit  that,  Tritton!" 

"What  does  the  Commanding  Officer  think  of  him,  Tritton?" 
inquired  Hamilton,  of  the  Right  Flank. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  he  says  'He'll  do,  though  not  brilliant.' " 

"He's  quite  a  good  sort  when  you  know  him,"  an  officer  called 
Rice  put  in. 

"You  must  admit  he  is  a  rum  'un,  though,"  Sutton  persisted. 
"Foth.  always  thought  so.  So  did  everybody.  I'm  glad  I'm  not 
in  Left  Flank." 

"Who's  'everybody,'  anyway?" 

"I  think  Eric's  death  half  did  for  Adrian,"  said  Burns.  "But 
before  that  I  noticed  something  funny  and — difficult  about  him. 
You  could  see  he  was  not  happy.  He  gets  along  all  right  but 
he  seems  to  do  everything  in  a  kind  of  dream.  He's  under  con- 
straint. His  real  self,  you  feel,  is  somewhere  else." 


TIME  AND  TIDE  ROLL  ON  385 

"I  heard  he  got  turned  down  by  some  girl,"  contributed  Sutton. 
"Anything  in  it?" 

Everybody  became  doubly  interested  at  this  disclosure,  but  noth- 
ing more  was  forthcoming. 

Cornwallis,  who  could  have  supplied  the  required  information, 
remained  silent. 

Tritton,  drawing  at  his  pipe,  said  reflectively,  "Women  are 
the  devil." 

§3 

Arthur  Cornwallis  had  lately  arrived  with  a  draft.  All  in 
the  battalion  who  had  previously  known  him  expressed  surprise 
at  his  return,  it  being  generally  felt  that  one  so  little  suited  to 
warfare  would  not  again  be  sent  out.  His  metier  was  so  ob- 
viously elsewhere.  As  a  matter  of  course  he  rejoined  the  Left 
Flank  company.  And  in  the  many  conversations  they  had  together, 
Adrian  divined  the  young  man's  purpose,  which  was  to  "make 
good."  He  sympathised  with  this  desire  while,  for  practical  rea- 
sons, regretting  it. 

Gornwallis's  arrival,  however,  bespoke  matters  of  more  personal 
moment  for  Adrian.  Among  the  stray  items  of  intelligence  from 
London  he  brought  that  of  Rosemary  Meynell's  engagement  to 
Harold  Upton. 

Nor  was  it  without  a  sharp,  an  unexpectedly  sharp,  struggle 
that  Adrian  brought  himself  to  face  this  fact.  His  mind,  it  is 
true,  during  eighteen  months  had  been  accustoming  itself — more 
or  less  consciously — to  no  other  expectation;  the  thing  was,  of 
course,  inevitable.  Yet  here  he  was,  face  to  face  with  it;  and 
the  process  by  which  he  finally  closed  the  door  on  this  intense 
episode  in  his  life — for  it  came  to  that — was  bitter. 

The  fact  is,  there  was  no  knowing  what  might  have  happened 
if,  even  then,  some  sign,  some  intimation,  some  hint  of  regret  or 
remorse  had  come. 

Nothing  of  the  sort  did  come.  And  for  two  or  three  days 
after  the  receipt  of  Cornwallis's  news  Adrian  was  a  prey  to 


386  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

reflections  at  once  morbid,  poignant  and  persistent.  Vivid  mo- 
ments flooded  back  upon  him.  Old  days  and  hours  crept  back 
into  his  knowledge  like  ghosts.  They  were  seen  in  a  cold,  wearing, 
regretful  light.  Had  he  but  acted  differently  two-and-a-half  years 
earlier!  Had  his  chivalry  been  less  pedantic,  his  sense  of  duty 
less  impetuously  conceived!  ...  He  even  accused  himself  of  a 
loose  sympathy  with,  or  careless  psychological  study  of,  that  being 
whose  future  had  been  so  entirely  his  future  and  whose  existence 
had  so  nearly  become  his  own.  Why  had  he  not  more  thoroughly 
understood  her?  How  not  foreseen?  Why  had  he  not  appre- 
hended the  needs  of  a  nature  so  spirited,  so  eager,  so  glad  and 
necessitous  of  life? 

Well — it  was  past.  And  gradually  the  future  and  his  new 
grip  on  the  future—through  Eric's  memory,  through  Faith, 
through  his  immediate  preoccupations — gained  the  upper  hand  and 
he  was  able  to  slam  a  door  finally  on  that  past,  to  relegate  what 
had  been  to  the  place  where  it  properly  belonged,  to  set  his  shoulder 
to  the  wheel  once  more.  In  so  doing — and  this  was  not  the  least 
devastating  moment  of  his  personal  tragedy — he  burnt  a  faded 
photograph  and  the  words  of  a  song. 

Cornwallis,  it  was  evident,  had  not  passed  through  the  inter- 
vening fifteen  months  in  England  unscathed.  Some  of  his  naivete 
had  been  lost,  though  none  of  his  simplicity.  He  wrote  more 
poetry  than  before — and  read  less.  As  in  earlier  days  he  defied 
the  batteries  of  his  fellow-subalterns  by  nightly  kneeling  down  to 
his  prayers — and  finally  vanquished  them  by  his  unaffected  manner 
of  doing  so.  He,  too — it  was  possible  to  conjecture — had  ex- 
perienced. The  truth  was  quite  soon  and  ingenuously  forthcoming. 
He  came  back  obsessed  with  the  "Clan  Maryon,"  its  art,  its  ideas, 
its  wit  and  "wonderfulness,"  its  "Rays"  and  "Stars"  and  othe.r 
evidences  of  constellatory  brilliance — above  all,  dazzled  by  the 
genie  herself.  For  days  and  nights  he  would  talk  to  Adrian 
of  nothing  and  nobody  but  Gina  Maryon,  reviving  conversations, 
recalling  personal  contacts — most  indiscreetly.  But  when  weeks 
sped  by  without  any  sign,  word,  or  communication  from  the  source 
of  his  inspiration,  his  tone  changed. 


TIME  AND  TIDE  ROLL  ON  387 

Well,  Adrian  reflected,  Arthur  had  to  buy  his  experience  as 
everyone  else  did!  It  was  such  an  old,  dull,  shop-soiled  story 
to  Adrian;  to  Arthur,  such  a  new  and  wonderful  and  absorbing 
adventure. 

"But  why  doesn't  she  answer  my  letters?"  the  latter  would 
despondently  inquire.  "I  can't  make  it  out.  We  parted  on  the 
best  of  terms.  Do  you  think  I  can  have  offended  her  somehow? 
But  I — I  knew  her  so  well,  Adrian.  We  were  so — so  happy 
together.  .  .  .  And  yet  she  can't  send  me  one  little  line." 

Adrian  could  not  quite  bring  himself  to  tell  his  friend  in  so 
many  words  that  Gina  had  probably  forgotten  his  existence.  Nor 
would  kindness  permit  him  to  add  that  Arthur's  scalp  lay  in  a 
heap  with  upwards  of  half-a-hundred  others  in  a  dusty  cupboard 
somewhere  at  the  back  of  Gina's  memory. 


They  spent  the  winter,  1917-18,  between  Arras  and  the  trenches 
east  of  it.  It  was  a  monotonous  brooding  winter,  which  on  the 
whole  enhanced  Adrian's  mood  of  locking-backward,  of  lingering 
regret,  of  suspended  animation.  The  old  city  itself  breathed  of 
these  things.  For  Adrian,  a  faded  letter  found  in  the  drawer  of 
his  billet  expressed  them. 

"Ayez  courage !"  it  ran ;  "les  Allemands  n'arriveront  pas  jusqu'a 
vous.  Nous  avons  besoin  de  toute  notre  foi  dans  ces  heures- 
ci."  .  .  . 

The  date  of  the  letter  was  August  25th,  1914. 

Adrian  and  Cornwallis  never  tired  of  walking  about  the  streets 
and  squares  of  this  town  that  seemed  so  full  of  a  curious  half- 
abandoned  charm,  a  reflective  dignity  and  sorrow  which  set  it 
apart,  as  did  its  Franco-Spanish  architecture,  from  other  French 
provincial  towns  they  had  visited.  Together  they  rejoiced  in  the 
beauty  of  its  Grande  Place,  where  pillars  support  colonnades  and 
old  over-leaning  houses,  as  in  some  Dutch  town;  its  high,  blank 
walls  and  narrow  alley-ways,  like  streets  of  Italy  or  Spain,  its 
bridges  and  public-gardens  and  hidden-away  gardens;  its  cobbled 


388  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

quay.  They  sought  out  uncommon  corners  and  stored  up  wintry 
impressions  of  the  place — sunsets  from  the  ramparts  or  the  race- 
course, interspersed  with  beautiful  ecclesiastical  monuments  in  the 
Spanish  style ;  hidden  in  an  obscure  part  of  the  old  cavalry  barracks, 
a  deserted  chapel  without  doors  or  windows,  into  which  snow  and 
autumn  leaves  had  drifted,  and  where  in  a  perpetually-falling  twi- 
light a  brass  memorial  told  of  Napoleon's  engineers  who  fell  at 
Waterloo.  Strange,  too,  Arras  under  the  snow — a  city  of  the 
Neva,  grey  and  white,  grey  and  white!  The  civilisation  of  the 
inner  city  seemed  to  strive  with  the  ruins  of  the  outer,  with  the 
vast,  half-ruined  cathedral  and  with  the  quite  ruined  railway 
station.  And  always  there  lay  upon  the  place  a  foreboding,  a 
prescience  of  Fate.  For  although  the  shopkeepers  had  taken  down 
their  shutters  and  the  inhabitants  emerged  from  their  cellars,  shells 
and  bombs  occasionally  fell  in  the  heart  of  the  town ;  and  although 
for  months  at  a  time  an  almost  normal  civilian  life  went  forward, 
it  was  felt  that  the  coming  spring  would  bring  such  a  struggle 
as  the  world  had  even  then  not  known. 

But  that  was  not  the  only  side  of  life  in  Arras.  There  con- 
tinued in  contrast  to  it  a  certain  gay,  convivial  activity.  There 
were  clubs.  There  were  concert-parties  and  good  meals  and  much 
singing  and  much  drinking;  there  were  bands  and  the  cinema- 
tograph; and  a  theatre  upheld  in  its  own  estimation  by  worn 
and  faded  plush,  by  tawdry  gilt,  and  bizarre  decorations.  Genee 
— a  man! — danced  there.  Harry  Lauder's  double  laughed  and 
sang.  Pantomime  and  revue  succeeded  one  another.  Something 
stole  back  into  men's  faces — some  quality  of  joy  in  things  illusion 
resurrected.  Or  perhaps  only  an  echo  of  things  gone  and  half- 
forgotten. 

One  day  Clemenceau  appeared — from  nowhere.  A  little  old 
farmer-like  man,  in  gaiters,  stepped  out  of  a  pale  blue  motor-car 
followed  by  three  brilliant  French  officers  in  horizon-blue,  scarlet, 
and  gold;  a  Highland  guard  presented  arms;  a  hastily-collected 
band  crashed  out  the  "Marseillaise."  The  little  old  fellow  trotted 
round  the  guard-of-honour,  raised  his  hat,  and  passed  into  the  city 
by  the  St.  Pol  Gate. 


TIME  AND  TIDE  ROLL  ON  389 

From  that,  all  that,  by  a  narrow-gauge  line  of  railway  following 
the  shallow  valley  of  the  Scarpe,  or  by  the  smooth,  silent  river 
in  barges,  or  even  by  road,  they  passed  five  or  six  times  a  month 
to  the  trenches  about  Roeux.  That  was  a  ghostly  journey — 
through  the  straight,  upright,  greyish-white  poles  of  the  shell- 
shattered  woodland,  through  the  reedy  marshes  of  the  river-bottom 
and  the  wide  lagoons  where  duck  and  water-fowl  called  mournfully 
and  shells  would  sometimes  send  the  water  hissing  upward.  Long 
passages  led  to  the  trenches.  In  the  vast  caves  of  Roeux  lit  by 
electric  light  and  in  the  secure  underground  chambers,  a  sepulchral 
stifled  life  went  on.  Without,  the  landscape  was  one  of  melancholy 
and  distance.  Greyish-brown  hills  overgrown  with  coarse  grass 
and  vegetation  offered  no  relief  to  the  eye.  There  was  inde- 
terminate mud:  mud  so  besetting  that  after  the  January  rains 
English  and  Germans  alike  emerged  from  their  trenches  and  lived 
above  ground,  making  no  secret  of  their  habits  or  of  their  presence. 

And  with  the  approach  of  spring  the  moment  approached  of 
that  German  offensive  which  had  been  so  long  expected,  so  often 
discounted.  Every  minute  of  this  period  could  be  felt.  The 
hours  grew  longer  and  more  exacting,  the  suspense  ever  more 
trying  and  intense.  Days  of  wearisome  preparation  were  followed 
by  nights  when  the  sleep  of  those  off-duty  was  broken  an  hour 
before  dawn  by  the  call  to  "stand-to."  Yet,  save  in  this  brief 
period  before  daybreak  the  guns  were  preternaturally  quiet.  Silence, 
Waiting  and  watching,  lay  upon  the  land. 

For  days,  for  weeks,  the  attack  did  not  break.  Warning  after 
warning  came  from  the  General  Staff.  "The  utmost  vigilance 
must  be  exercised  at  all  times  in  the  front  line."  "The  enemy  is 
expected  to  attack  at  any  moment."  How  the  men  shivered  and 
swore  as,  huddled  up  in  their  greatcoats,  they  stamped  upon  the 
fire-steps  and  beat  their  mittened  hands  together  in  the  saffron 
light  of  each  frosty  sunrise!  At  last  they  began  to  ridicule  the 
idea  of  the  coming  onslaught,  setting  the  warnings  down  as  part 
of  a  "scare,"  as  so  much  else  in  the  war  had  deserved  to  be  set 
down.  But  the  company-commanders  knew  better — and  knew  no 
rest.  To  them  had  been  disclosed  as  early  as  the  second  week 


390  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

in  March  the  plan  of  the  German  attack  so  far  as  this  was 
known: — the  frontage  of  it,  the  weight  of  it,  its  objectives,  even 
the  date  of  it.  The  last,  it  is  true,  proved  one  day  out  but,  for 
the  rest,  Adrian  and  his  brother-officers  afterwards  marvelled  at 
the  competence  in  this  instance  of  the  British  Intelligence  Service. 

The  Division  at  the  expiry  of  its  normal  three  months'  "tour" 
went  out  of  line.  At  this  very  moment,  the  attack  broke,  and 
among  other  important  points  on  the  British  front,  the  hill  of 
Monchy  fell.  To  the  defence  of  this  important  tactical  area  the 
battalion  was  rushed,  and  for  three  days  and  nights  they  lay 
across  the  Arras-Cambrai  road,  listening  to  the  crackle  of  rifle-fire 
out  in  front,  to  the  ill-directed  German  shells  which  screamed 
rearwards.  Once,  and  only  once,  they  secured  a  fair  target  of 
Germans  in  the  open;  upon  that  every  available  weapon  was 
turned.  It  was  a  glorious  opportunity.  At  the  very  height  of 
the  slaughter,  Adrian  heard  a  voice  at  his  elbow. 

"Adrian!  Adrian!  Why  won't  this  rifle  go  off?  I  press  the 
trigger  and  it  doesn't  fire!" 

Beside  him  was  Cornwallis,  his  face  flushed  with  agitation. 

He  also  perceived  that  his  rifle  was  at  half-cock. 

"Push  your  safety-catch  forward,  you  damned  fool !"  he  shouted. 

"Oh!— why,  of  course!" 

And  that  was  Cornwallis's  first  attempt  to  "make  good." 

A  week  later  they  marched  back  to  rest.  And  although  a  few 
miles  to  the  southward  the  grey  German  tide,  rolling  forward 
to  its  high-water  mark  on  the  long-silent  Somme  battlefield, 
threatened  hourly  the  partition  of  the  Allied  armies,  at  Arras 
(north  of  the  Monchy  hill)  the  line  held.  By  the  middle  of 
April  the  supreme  peril  seemed  to  be  past.  Temporarily  the  guns 
died  down,  only  to  blaze  out  as  fiercely  in  the  north.  What  a 
month!  What  a  struggle! 

Through  the  latter  part  of  April  and  early  May,  Adrian  Knoyle 
and  his  comrades  lay  in  the  flat  lands  about  Avesnes-le-Comte. 
This  is  a  pastoral  and  pleasant,  though  featureless  country.  Here 
spring  found  them — in  the  chateau  of  Grand  Rullecourt.  Such 


TIME  AND  TIDE  ROLL  ON  391 

a  spring  seemed  to  Adrian — little  accustomed  to  unscathed  country 
— to  leap  out  of  the  womb  of  time.  Rooks  were  nesting  in  the 
great  trees,  and  in  the  neglected  chateau  garden  anemones,  blue- 
bells, speedwell,  daisies,  violets,  daffodils  tenderly  raised  their  heads. 
Fruit-blossom  snowed  up  the  orchards.  Out  in  the  fields  whole 
families  of  peasants  worked  the  livelong  day,  while  pale  green 
shafts  of  corn  mounted  beneath  a  sunshine  that  grew  ever  warmer, 
kindlier,  and  sweeter  scented.  Bees  began  to  hum  in  great  limes 
near  the  house.  How  the  larks  sang! 

One  day,  Adrian  received  a  letter  from  Lady  Knoyle  announcing 
that  the  lease  of  Stane  was  due  to  terminate  at  the  end  of  that 
present  year,  1918.  And  she  hoped  he  would  decide — yes,  she 
hoped  he  would  decide — to  settle  down  there  after  the  war.  .  .  . 
After  the  war !  A  world  without  war — was  it  conceivable  ?  Yet, 
in  a  way  it  was  like  his  mother  to  contemplate  such  a  future ! 

He  began  to  think  again  very  often  of  the  Three  Hills. 

§5 

May  in  trenches  south  of  Arras  found  the  trio,  Knoyle,  Burns, 
and  Cornwallis,  still  together.  But  the  tension  of  the  battle-line 
was  not  relaxed.  It  never  had  relaxed  since  the  morning  of 
March  2 1st.  One  great  German  attack  succeeded  another  after 
a  brief,  breathless  pause;  and  none  could  say  where  the  next 
would  fall.  The  Arras  front  seemed  hourly  threatened,  once  the 
more  northerly  attacks  had  been  beaten  back.  Finally,  towards 
the  end  of  May  (and  to  the  surprise  of  those  who  held  the  centre) 
the  main  weight  of  the  onslaught  fell  upon  the  French  armies 
between  Soissons  and  Rheims. 

The  tension  then,  if  anything,  increased.  Everyone  bent  a  little 
under  it.  Through  the  foregoing  months  of  conflict  and  of  move- 
ment, through  the  long  days  of  suspense  before  the  bursting  of 
the  storm — when  alone  his  impelling  sense  of  necessity  preserved 
a  mental  equipoise — a  change  had  already  been  at  work  in  Adrian. 

If  Lady  Knoyle's  letters  offered  counsel  and  stimulus,  Faith's — 
for  she  continued  to  write  week  by  week — caused  him  to  set  his 


392  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

teeth  and  fight  grimly  on.  For  all  these,  however,  and  for  all 
his  grimness  of  determination,  the  war  had  begun  to  wreak  its 
vengeance,  to  take  its  toll,  in  spite  of  himself.  Burns  had  been 
right.  Adrian  experienced  a  physical  reaction  so  acute,  a  sense 
of  weariness  so  devastating,  so  overwhelming,  that  the  mere  hang- 
ing-on  from  day  to  day  seemed  a  burden  almost  too  great  to  be 
borne.  Danger,  indeed,  left  him  indifferent  even  as  the  future 
did.  Not  so  the  burden  of  the  always-impending  conflict,  the  noise, 
the  violence,  the  unsightliness,  the  prolonged  discomfort  and  lack 
of  sleep ;  not  so  the  ever-present  strain  of  responsibility.  After  all, 
the  man's  existence  for  over  two  years  had  been  little  better  than 
a  living  death.  And  life  calls  to  life.  ...  He  grew  physically 
tired  and  weak:  irritable  with  a  nervousness  that  he  could  not 
control.  His  philosophy  of  indifference,  so  carefully  nurtured, 
so  long  maintained,  seemed  to  forsake  him.  He  began  to  dread, 
to  hate  each  return  to  the  front  line,  to  feel  nausea  almost  insup- 
portable at  the  thought  of  the  grind,  the  imprisonment,  the  ennui, 
the  squalor  of  trench  life. 

Some  noticed  this  change  in  him  suddenly:  this  irritability,  this 
moodiness,  followed  by  periods  of  comparative  gaiety.  Others  had 
long  watched  it  developing. 

Among  the  latter  was  Colonel  Forsyth,  who,  like  all  good  com- 
manding officers,  had  a  habit  of  studying  his  juniors  severally — 
his  company-commanders  in  particular.  He  was  familiar  enough 
already  with  the  symptoms  that  now  began  to  appear  in  Captain 
Knoyle.  English  leave  had  long  since  been  stopped,  but  when 
early  in  June  a  vacancy  for  Paris  leave  came  through,  that  officer 
was  not  consulted,  his  name  having  been  already  submitted  and 
approved. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Adrian  and  Faith 

§  i 

ABBEVILLE  station  lay  grilling  in  the  glare  of  June.  Adrian  felt 
bewildered  by  the  noise,  clamour,  and  vociferous  energy,  the  hoot- 
ing of  sirens,  the  blowing  of  horns,  the  backing  in  and  out  of 
long  supply  and  troops  trains,  the  shouting  and  calling  out  of 
railway  officials,  Railway  Transport  officers,  and  the  Mission 
Militaire  the  wild  bustling  and  wrestling  with  luggage.  It  was 
a  great  railway-junction. 

Cosmopolitan  and  variegated  as  the  crowd  was,  khaki  remained 
the  dominant  note — the  khaki  of  the  heavy  and  stolid  English, 
the  square,  thick-set  English  with  their  unromantic,  imperturbable 
calm ;  of  the  Americans,  lithe  and  slim,  rather  like  keen  commercial 
travellers,  with  nasal  voices,  odd  cynical  faces,  and  an  air  of  being 
perpetually  amused;  of  the  Belgians,  bearded,  new-looking,  too 
new-looking  (the  English  said),  with  their  yellow  boots  and  belts. 
French  officers  in  horizon-blue  darted  like  brilliant  kingfishers 
through  the  crowd.  There  were  many  French  infantrymen-of- 
the-line  going  on  leave  or  returning.  On  the  platform  opposite 
stood  a  group  of  Portuguese  in  grey  uniforms  with  sallow  an3 
ochre  complexions.  Swarthy  Australians  and  Canadians,  of  in- 
dependent bearing  and  muscular  build,  lounged,  smoking,  against 
pillars  or  railings.  A  couple  of  Japanese  officers,  attached  to  the 
General  Staff,  stood  by  themselves.  Behind  all  these,  the  worried- 
looking,  close-packed  throng — demure  V.A.D.  workers  in.  dark 
blue,  grip  in  hand ;  gaunt,  angular  military  nurses  in  grey  hats  and 
grey,  scarlet-bordered  cloaks;  and  then  a  mass  of  untidy  civilians, 
herding  like  cattle  with  their  luggage,  seeking  only  to  escape  from 
the  heavy-bombed  and  already  half-ruined  town. 

393 


394  #^y  OF  REVELATION 

Then  the  Paris  express  clanked  in.  All  made  a  wild  rush  for 
places,  shouting,  gesticulating,  using  freely  fists  and  arms,  sticks 
and  umbrellas,  dragging  and  pushing  luggage  or  each  other  as 
best  they  might.  Adrian,  burdened  only  with  a  haversack,  elbowed 
his  way  in  a  leisurely  manner  towards  the  rear  of  the  train.  In 
the  midst  of  the  commotion  he  heard  his  name  called. 

"Adrian!    Adrian!    Hi!    Here!" 

The  voice,  a  woman's,  was  oddly  familiar,  yet  for  several  seconds 
he  could  not  discover  the  source  or  direction  of  it. 

"Adrian? 

He  glanced  eagerly  up  and  down  the  train.  .  .  . 

Then  he  saw  Faith  Sinclair  waving  at  an  open  carriage  door. 


§2 

"Faith!" 

He  forced  a  way  to  her. 

"But  this  is  too  wonderful !"  she  cried.  Their  hands  clasped. 
"You're  going  to  Paris?" 

"Rather." 

"Jump  in,  then!" 

She  was  in  a  uniform — grey,  with  a  veil  closely  framing  her 
face,  a  red  cross  on  the  front  of  it.  Her  fair  hair  strayed  elusively 
from  under  the  hood.  Her  fresh  complexion  struck  him  as  unmis- 
takably and  delightfully  English;  so  did  her  pleasant  features 
and  her  serene  blue  eyes.  Faith  Sinclair  was  not  beautiful;  he 
never  had  thought  that;  but  she  was  miraculously  cool  and  fair 
and  good  to  look  upon  after  that  perspiring,  distracted  mob  on 
the  station-platform.  Yet — he  was  aware  at  once  of  a  change  in 
her:  something  in  the  e}^e,  perhaps,  something  new  in  the  whole 
expression  of  the  face,  lit  up  with  pleasure  though  it  was. 

"Well — this  is  luck!  I'm  on  my  way  to  the  Anglo-American 
hospital  at  Neuilly." 

"And  I'm  going  on  leave.  I  say,  you're  travelling  in  luxury, 
aren't  you?  How  the  deuce  did  you  manage  this?" 


ADRIAN  AND  FAITH  395 

He  pointed  to  a  label  on  the  window  of  the  carriage  inscribed 
"Reservee."  They  had  the  carnage  to  themselves. 

"I  know;  I  plead  guilty.  People  of  various  nationalities  have 
been  peering  in  at  intervals,  looking  as  though  they  wanted  to 
assault  me  which  they  probably  do,  because  they're  packed  like 
sardines  in  every  other  carriage.  The  fact  is,  father  met  me  at 
Boulogne  and  insisted  on  some  mysterious  friend  of  his,  an  R.T.O., 
or  whatever  you  call  them,  treating  me  like  a  royal  personage. 
He  said  he  wouldn't  have  me  crammed  in  with  a  lot  of  dagoes. 
Ridiculous,  of  course,  but  like  him!  If  you  hadn't  turned  up  I 
should  have  invited  a  selection  of  them  in.  But  now " 

"We  might  as  well  keep  'em  out?" 

"Well — it  would  be  more  selfish,  wouldn't  it?" 

"It  would  be  a  jolly  sight  pleasanter." 

There  was  a  renewed  blare  of  horns;  whistles  blew.  The  train 
slowly  rumbled  out  of  the  still-crowded  station. 

They  studied  each  other.  To  Adrian  the  dilapidated  railway- 
carriage,  with  its  broken  window  and  faded  light  upholstering, 
seemed  perfumed  with  the  fragrant  breath  of  an  English  summer. 
Faith^was  thinking,  "Good  heavens!  Can  this  be  the  boy  I  said 
good-bye  to  three  years  ago?  Why,  he's  old — worn  and  lined." 

"So  your  revered  parent's  in  France  too?" 

"Yes,  he  vanquished  all." 

"What's  he  doing?" 

"He's  been  commanding  a  battalion  for — let  me  see — three 
months.  Oh!  the  'scene'  when  he  went  out!" 

"Not  up  at  the  front?" 

"In  the  firing  line.  His  battalion  was  fighting  at  Kemmel. 
Mercifully  he  came  through  it  all  right.  But  the  anxiety  is  sim- 
ply killing  mother." 

"I  should  think  so." 

"He  got  special  leave  to  come  down  to  Boulogne  to  meet  me — 
insisted  on  it!  As  if  his  precious  daughter  is  different  from  any- 
body else  out  here!  It's  all  very  well,  but  it  makes  one  feel  a 
perfect  fool."  She  laughed. 

"How  does  he  stick  it?" 


396  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"I've  never  seen  him  so  well.  Bounding,  absolutely.  He  says 
he's  having  the  time  of  his  life  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  The 
Brigadier  wrote  to  mother  and  said  they  love  him — but  he  terrifies 
them.  They  never  know  what  he'll  do  next.  But  oh!  my  dear, 
if  anything  does  happen " 

"He's — what — fifty  or  more?" 

"Fifty-two,  to  be  exact." 

"H'm!— - wonderful!" 

But  they  were  not  really  thinking  much  about  Arden.  They 
were  thinking  of  each  other  and  of  all  that  had  come  and  of  all 
that  had  gone  since  their  parting  three  years  before  under  the 
clock  at  Hyde  Park  Corner.  From  each  other  they  looked  out 
of  window  at  the  uninteresting  landscape  flitting  past — and  back 
at  each  other.  There  seemed  so  much  to  say,  it  was  difficult 
to  begin.  .  .  . 

And  it  was  almost  as  if  they  wished  to  postpone  the  pleasure 
of  talk.  Once  Adrian  looked  up  to  find  Faith's  eyes  upon  him 
with  their  old  reflective  look.  And  once  he  looked  up  to  find 
those  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"You're  looking  tired,  Adrian ;  very,  very  tired." 

"I  feel  it,  Faith.  I  want  a  change.  You're  not — quite  the  same 
either." 

She  thought  before  replying. 

"Could — either  of  us  be  the  same?" 

"I  suppose  not." 

"So  much  has  happened.  .  .  ." 

And  presently: 

"You  were  a  small  boy  then.  Now  you're — a  grown-up  old 
man." 

They  laughed  at  that. 

"Yes,  and  a  sadder  and  a  wiser — — "  he  began;  "but  I  won't 
say  the  obvious." 

"I  wonder  what  kind  angel  has  brought  us  together.  .  .  .  It's 
like  an  omen,  isn't  it?" 

"The  Bon  Dieu  has  smiled  on  us  for  once.  We  are  good 
children." 


ADRIAN  AND  FAITH  397 

The  train  stopped  at  Le  Treport,  with  its  grey  houses  and  its 
great  hospital-hotel  perched  high  up  on  the  sea-cliff.  There  they 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sea.  Animation  prevailed.  English  nurses 
and  V.A.D.'s  alighted,  others,  attached  to  the  various  services, 
were  assembled  on  the  station-platform.  Then  the  train,  returning 
on  its  track,  moved  Pariswards  again. 

Adrian  suggested  they  should  go  along  to  the  restaurant-car 
for  dejeuner.  They  sat  opposite  a  small  French  soldier  who  was 
reading  La  Revue  de  Paris.  Faith  nudged  Adrian  and  smiled. 

"Imagine  an  English  Tommy  reading  the  Nineteenth  Century!" 
He  smiled  too. 

They  spoke  of  indifferent  matters  during  the  meal,  of  the  thou- 
sand-and-one  incidents  and  impressions  which  had  agitated  the 
surface  of  the  three  years'  interval,  Faith  laughing  and  talking 
gaily. 

A  chain  and  a  locket  that  seemed  familiar  hung  in  the  folds 
of  her  nurse's  attire.  And  when  they  were  back  once  more  in  their 
carriage  he  drew  attention  to  it. 

"I  see  you've  got  that,"  he  said. 

"Of  course,  Adrian." 

Hef  face  was  most  nearly  beautiful  when  sorrowful.  Or  was 
it  not  then  quite  and  even  very  beautiful?  It  grew  sad  now.  It 
grew  upon  his  consciousness ;  his  eyes  kept  coming  back  to  her  face. 

They  were  passing  through  a  monotonous  country  whose  broad, 
marshy  valleys,  traversed  by  streams,  were  bounded  by  low  and 
often  wooded  hills.  The  meadows  were  brilliant  with  cowslips, 
buttercups,  and  marigolds;  on  the  folding  woodlands  was  a  still 
springtime  green.  The  corn  ripened  almost  visibly;  magpies  of 
a  brilliantly  contrasting  black-and-white  sheen  constantly  flitted 
from  tree  to  railway  enbankment  and  back  again. 

"I  can  never  thank  you  enough  for  all  you  did,"  Faith  said. 
"But  I  know  you  don't  want  thanks." 

"Want  thanks?  My  dear,  what  have  I  done?  What  could 
I  do,  or  rather,  what  else  could  I  do?  Don't  let's  be — con- 
ventional." 

"I  felt — you  were  feeling,  and  that's  meant  very  much  to  me." 


398  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

"It's  been  a  hard  time — for  us  both,  Faith." 

"Adrian  .  .  .  it's  as  if  one's  living  heart  had  been  dragged  out." 

A  long-suppressed  grief  seemed  to  force  itself  out  in  these  words. 

Silence  supervened,  silence  except  for  the  unvarying  throb-throb 
and  clank-clank  of  the  train. 

After  several  minutes  she  spoke  again: 

"Nobody  will  ever  know — nobody  can  ever  know — what  he — 
what  those  lew  weeks  meant  to  us  both." 

"He  was  so  reserved  about  the  things  he  really  felt  that  even 
I  hardly  knew  what  he  was  thinking,"  Adrian  replied.  "He  only 
mentioned  that  once." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"We  were  sitting  in  that  horrible  blockhouse,  being  shelled.  He 
said,  'It's  a  bit  rough  at  first,  this — after  that.  But,  of  course, 
it  couldn't  last  for  ever.' " 

".  .  .  my  poor,  poor  old  boy!" 

She  gazed  out  of  window  at  the  afternoon  sunshine  upon  the 
smiling  country,  twisting  a  handkerchief  between  her  fingers. 

Presently  she  said: 

"Adrian,  I'm  thankful,  oh!  so  thankful  that  you  were  with  him 
then.  When  you  are  with  me  I  shall  always  feel  that — he  is 
near  ...  us  both." 

After  that  they  spoke  no  more  for  a  long 


§3 

"Of  course,  you  know,  it's  the  end  of  a  chapter  for  me."  Her 
voice  was  calm,  almost  matter-of-fact  again.  "It's  the  end  of — 
something  more,  too.  Nothing  so  tremendous,  so  overwhelming 
can  ever  happen  to  me  again.  There  was  a  time  at  Arden  and 
after  when — I  was  not  sure.  Then  the  war  .  .  .  seemed  to  bring 
him  out.  It  revealed  him  in  a  new  light  to  me — himself.  I 
never  really  knew  till  those  three  little  weeks  of  ours — what  sort 
of  man  he  was.  Of  course,  poor  darling,  he  wasn't  perfect,  but — 
there  was  something  great  about  him  even" — she  hesitated  a  mo- 


ADRIAN  AND  FAITH  399 

ment,  a  look  of  great  tenderness  crossing  her  face — "even  in  his 
sins." 

"He  was  a  soldier  before  everything  out  here.  He  did  not 
show  the — personal  side  of  him.  All  his  active  life  and  thought 
were  given  to  our  Company.  But  I  know  he  did  think  a  great 
deal  about  you  and — the  future." 

"Tell  me  this,  Adrian.  Why  is  it  always  his  sort — the  finest, 
the  bravest,  the  best  that  go?  And  people — rotters  like — like 
that  man  Upton — are  left?" 

The  mention  of  that  name,  he  was  curious  to  find,  left  him  cold. 

"I  suppose  it's  part  of  the  price  we  have  to  pay.  There  are  so 
many  things  one  cannot  explain.  Why,  for  instance,  should  Eric 
be  taken  with  everything  worth  having  in  life  before  him  and — 
a  derelict  like  me  left?" 

She  studied  her  friend's  face  long  and  carefully.  "Why  do 
you  speak  of  yourself  like  that,  my  dear?" 

"You  mention  Upton — why  not  me?"  He  spoke  without  emo- 
tion. "Upton  and  I  have  things  in  common.  ...  I,  too,  have 
often  wondered  at  the  profligacy  of  It  all.  I  don't  understand- 
any  thing." 

She- did  not  answer  at  once. 

"I  see,  Adrian,"  she  said  meditatively.  "I  know.  Still,  you're 
past  that  now?  Unhappiness  makes  one  egotistical,  or  I  should 
not  have  said  tnat.  You've  had  your  bad  time.  You've — had 
your  heart  wrenched  out  too." 

"Oh,  well,  it's  done  with  now.  That  man's  name  was  gall  and 
wormwood  to  me  once.  Now — I  think  ...  I  don't  care  a 
damn." 

"But  she?" 

"Rosemary?  It's  strange  we  should  speak  of — all  that.  The 
last  person  I  mentioned  her  name  to  was  Eric." 

"And  therefore  you  can  always  speak  of  it  to  me,  Adrian.  Don't 
I  know  her  as  well  as  you  did  yourself?  And  didn't  he  know  her, 
too?  Why,  he  used  to  write  to  me  every  day  about  you  both! 
He  felt  it  nearly  as  much  as  you  did.  He  was  fond  of  Rosie — 
until  then.  But  he  never  forgave  her  in  his  heart.  He  begged 


400  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

me  to  be  a  pal  to  her,  and  I've  tried  to  be.  Heaven  knows  she 
needs  one." 

"Needs  one?    She's  all  right,  though,  isn't  she?" 

He  found  himself  speaking  of  his  old  love  without  a  twinge  of 
emotion  or  of  pain. 

"I  don't  really  know  .  .  .  what  she  is,"  Faith  replied  slowly. 
"We're  no  longer  friends,  except  in  name.  We  never  see  each 
other.  She  never  comes  near  me.  She  refused  to  be  a  bridesmaid 
at  our  wedding.  I've  asked  her  to  come  and  see  me  again  and 
again.  She's  always  had  some  excuse.  Except  once.  .  .  .  She  was 
the  very  first  person  to  come  round  after  I  heard  about  Eric. 
Curious,  wasn't  it?  Entirely  of  her  own  accord,  and — she  was — 
well,  what  only  Rosie  can  be  when  she  chooses.  ...  I  could  see 
she  was  really  and  truly  moved  about  it,  too.  I  think  she  must 
have  been  very  fond  of  him,  in  her  own  way.  We  talked  as  we 
had  not  talked  since  that  week-end  at  the  outbreak  of  war.  We 
talked  of  everything — what  we  used  to  call  'heart-to-hearters'  in 
the  old  days — everything  except  herself.  When  I  asked  how  life 
was  treating  her  she  shut  up  like  a  knife." 

"Haven't  you  seen  her  since?" 

"She  never  came  again.  I  asked  her,  but  she  did  not  come.  At 
first  she  made  excuses — transparent  ones.  Finally  I  wrote  and 
told  her  always  to  think  of  me  as  her  true  friend  and  to  feel  that 
I  was  there  if  ever  she  wanted  me.  She  never  even  answered. 
The  fact  is  she  knows,  and  has  known  from  the  first — because  I 
told  her,  stupidly  perhaps — that  I  hate  the  life  she  leads  and  I  hate 
the  people  she  lives  with.  I'd  give  anything  to  get  her  away  from 
them — anything.  But  she's  self-willed  and  she's  intensely,  irration- 
ally proud." 

"She's  afraid  of  you,  I  suppose?" 

"She  resents  advice  or  even  the  semblance  of  it.  She  thinks  I'm 
going  to  interfere  or  lecture  her  or  something,  I  suppose.  As  if  I 
should  be  such  a  fool — now.  The  time  for  that's  long  past.  .  .  . 
She's  got  to  make — or  mar — her  own  life,  and  learn  her  own  les- 
sons. And  she  will  learn  them — in  time." 

"Is  she  still  fond  of  Upton?" 


ADRIAN  AND  FAITH  401 

"I  think  she's  infatuated  with  them  all.  But  if  she  isn't,  wild 
horses  wouldn't  make  her  admit  it.  No,  she's  got  to  go  her  own 
way  now  to  the  end — whatever  it  may  be." 

"Do  you  see  much  of  Gina?" 

"I  don't  want  to.    I  hear  quite  enough." 

"What— scandal?" 

"Rumours.  People  talk.  I  don't  believe  all  one  hears.  It's 
too  dreadful  even  to  think  about.  But  there  must  be  something  in 
it.  ...  I  keep  out  of  her  way.  I  don't  want  to  meet  her — not 
because  of  that,  though.  Because  I  think  she's  largely  responsible 
— she  and  Helena  Cranford — for  this  engagement  and — the  whole 
thing;  I  never  can  forgive  either  of  them." 

"Doesn't  Lady  C.  know  all  about  the  Maryon  crowd?  She 
must,  surely." 

"I  think  she's  criminal,  Adrian.  She  practically  washes  her 
hands  of  her  own  daughter.  If  you  speak  to  her  about  it,  she 
simply  says  she  'doesn't  understand  the  girl  of  the  period.'  Really, 
I  suppose,  though  one  doesn't  like  to  say  it,  she's  thinking  of  his — 
that  man's — money." 

Faith  was  silent  a  moment.    Then : 

"And  it's  more  than  that — it's  more  than  that  I  blame  Helena 
Cranford  for,  Adrian.  It's  .  .  ,  the  whole  arrangement  of  things 
— the  whole  system  she  stands  for.  Where  do  facts  come  in? 
Where  do  common-sense  and  knowledge  of  human  nature  come 
in?  Helena  Cranford  has  the  reputation  of  being  broad-minded 
and  intelligent.  But  how  has  she  brought  up  this  girl — how  have 
any  of  us  been  brought  up?  Like  our  grandmothers  were — by  rule 
of  thumb.  We're  told  that  the  only  things  that  matter  are  to 
dance  well,  ride  and  play  tennis  well,  be  well  dressed,  be  amusing 
to  young  men,  and  look  pretty.  Then  the  war  comes  along,  and 
the  whole  system  breaks  down,  and  where  are  we — products? 
High  and  dry,  with  nothing  to  fall  back  on,  no  guiding  hand,  or 
principle.  And  a  girl  like  Rosemary  drifts,  and  her  mother — 
because  the  old  landmarks  are  gone — looks  the  other  way,  or  rather 
goes  her  own  way  in  the  society  that  interests  her,  and  says  she 
doesn't  understand  the  'girl  of  the  period.'  .  .  .  And  the  mar- 


402  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

riages!  Oughtn't  there  to  be  a  censorship  or  something?  What  is 
Cranford — where  is  he?  So  effete,  as  far  as  I  can  gather,  or  so 
dissipated  that  he  has  to  be  shut  up.  A  complete  wash-out.  And 
such  people — because  they've  got  coronets  and  'places' — a  few 
thousand  a  year — are  allowed  to  have  children  who,  nine  times  out 
of  ten,  inherit  their  own  tendencies.  And  those  children  are 
allowed  to  marry — creatures  like  Upton  because  they've  got  a  few 
thousand  a  year." 

Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  and  a  flush  warmed  her  cheeks. 

"When  are  they  going  to  be  married?" 

"Soon,  I  believe — any  day,  in  fact." 

Faith  clenched  her  handkerchief  convulsively,  and  in  a  sudden 
access  of  feeling  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  my  dear,  it's  a  tragedy!  .  .  .  Rosie — our  little  Rosie  and 
— that  poisonous  man.  .  .  .  But  there  are  tragedies  everywhere — 
the  world  over." 

Her  voice  broke,  but  she  would  not  relinquish  her  self-control. 


§  4 

Evening  had  come,  and  the  sunset  flooded  their  carriage  while 
the  train  jolted  and  rumbled  onward  towards  Paris. 

They  were  come  to  the  rolling,  wooded  country  about  Creil; 
little  more  than  an  hour  would  bring  them  to  the  threatened  city. 
Adrian  found  it  hard  to  reconcile  the  golden  peace  of  the  passing 
country  with  the  restless  surge  of  their  two  hearts,  puny  as  that  was 
beside  the  sum-total  of  the  vast  tragedy  that  lay  beyond. 

He  was  moved — moved  deeply  by  this  phantom-shape  of  Eric's 
happiness,  moved  by  Faith's  words  about  Rosemary,  moved  by  his 
own  long-smouldering  pain,  moved  by  a  profound  tenderness  for 
this  good  woman  whom  Fate  had  cheated  of  her  happiness. 

As  the  train  rolled  on  and  they  sat  in  sympathetic  silence,  he 
knew  that  their  common  thought  had  gone  back  to  Eric.  These 
words  in  a  low  tone  presently  broke  from  her: 

"He  passed  though  agony  and  is  now  happy.     He  is  purified. 


ADRIAN  AND  FAITH  403 

I  know  he  is  always  near  me.    I  know  we  shall  meet  in  some  future 
place." 

And  then,  as  one  quoting  from  memory: 

1  'The  souls  of  the  faithful  who  have  died  in  the  service  of  their 
country  rest  for  ever  in  the  lap  of  God.'  ...  So  it  doesn't  matter 
if  he  wasn't  very  good  and  moral  and — and  all  that,  does  it, 
Adrian?" 

He  inclined  his  head. 

Another  long  silence  followed.  Adrian  had  an  idea  that  she 
was  praying,  and  did  not  feel  embarrassed. 

She  presently  looked  up. 

"Adrian — do  you  believe  in  anything?" 

He  hesitated.     "Well,  yes — I  suppose  so.    Yes — I  think  I  do." 

"Conventionally — as  an  institution?  Because  you  were  brought 
up  to — like  being  a  Conservative  in  politics  ?" 

"Well— yes,  perhaps." 

"That  doesn't  count.  That's  not  believing.  That's  taking 
things  for  granted." 

"What  do  you  mean,  then  ?    What  ought  one  to  believe  in  ?" 

"In.  a  supreme  guiding  principle.  In  some  beneficent  purpose 
at  the  back  of  all  this — this  insensate  destruction  and  conflict  and 
universal  death ;  at  the  back,  too,  of  all  evil  and  passion  and  suffer- 
ing." 

"But  what  sort  of  purpose?" 

She  thought  a  moment. 

"I  don't  know — now." 

"But  yet  you  believe  in  it?" 

"I  do — absolutely.  It's  the  only  thing  that's  kept  me  going;  it's 
the  only  sheet-anchor  for  a  man  or  a  woman  in  these  times." 

"Show  me  the  way  to — daylight,  and  I'll  believe  too." 

"Faith.  Faith  in  a  Supreme  Being,  and  in  a  Hereafter.  Dear 
old  Eric  never  had  it,  but  he  had  faith  in  himself,  and  that  carried 
him  through.  The  war  revealed  his  soul.  .  .  .  But  I  mean  faith, 
too,  in  the  end  of  the  struggle.  These  you  must  have.  Wash  out 
everything  you've  ever  learnt,  everything  you've  ever  been  taught. 
Start  the  world  anew.  Keep  your  mind  on  the  simple  and 


404  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

elemental  things — and  truth.     It's  hard  sometimes,  I  know,  but 
there's  something  wonderful  at  the  end  of  it." 

She  spoke  with  great  earnestness. 

"I've  come  to  that  in  these  months.  Or  rather  it's  come  to  mu 
— come  to  me  just  since  Eric  died.  It's  brought  hope  and  some- 
times rest  and  often  a  wonderful  sense  of — communion  with  him, 
though  he's  beyond  sight  or  sound  or  touch." 

Adrian  turned  to  her  a  thoughtful  face. 

"I  wish  I  could  feel  like  that,  Faith.  But  I  can't.  Until 
to-day  I  don't  think  I've  seen  daylight,  not  a  glimmer,  for — for 
two-and-a-half  years." 

"But  Eric ?" 

"He  saved  my  life  once;  he  gave  me  what  I  didn't  want.  He 
was  all  in  the  world  a  friend  could  be;  but  he  could  not  bring 
back  what  had  simply  gone  out  of  me." 

They  were  silent  a  moment.    Then  she  said: 

"I  would  like  to  try  and  do  that." 

"Faith,  we  are  both  of  us — rather — thwarted,  disillusioned 
people " 

"But  that  is  everywhere  in  the  world.  How  many  people  there 
must  be  like  ourselves!  Thwarted,  disillusioned,  wornout — that's 
the  very  process  of  the  war  itself.  But  the  war  will  end.  I  think 
of  this  time  as  of  one  of  those  wild  and  stormy  nights  one  some- 
times gets  in  an  English  spring  when  the  wind  howls  and  the  rain 
beats  against  the  windows  till  near  daybreak.  And  then,  like  a 
miracle,  light  comes  and  reveals  a  calm  sunny  spring  morning.  .  .  . 
Adrian,  we  must  struggle  out  towards  that  dawn.  I  believe  I  can 
show  you  the  way.  Shall  we-— do  that  together?" 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  the  old  frank  smile.  He  took  it 
eagerly — kept  it  in  his. 

"We  mustn't  let  life  be  a  tragedy,"  she  continued.  "Eric 
laughed  at  life — and  death.  Eric  wouldn't  have  stood  it  for  a 
moment.  Doesn't  it  strike  you  there's  still  so  much  to — enjoy; 
there's  so  much  beauty  and  light  and  love  in  the  world  still!  This 
nightmare  will  pass,  Adrian.  .  .  .  What  a  wonderful  evening  sky !" 
All  the  west  was  rose-colour,  deepening  by  almost  imperceptible 


ADRIAN  AND  FAITH  405 

gradations  to  the  indigo  shades  of  night.  About  the  zenith  were 
strata  of  pale  gold,  amethyst-green  and  deep  turquoise-blue.  A 
phantom  moon  sailed  into  the  sky.  The  evening  star  glimmered 
like  a  jewel. 

The  train  slowed  down  and  pulled  up  with  a  jerk.    There  were 
shouts  and  a  horn  blown.  •  It  was  Beauvoir. 


So  they  came  to  the  last  short  stage  before  Paris. 

Darkness  began  rapidly  to  close  in.  The  evening  mist  partially 
veiled  the  thickly-wooded  country  about  Chantilly.  Lights  as  yet 
undimmed  began  to  twinkle  in  the  windows  of  villas  and  country- 
houses  and  clustered  in  small  towns.  According  to  regulation,  the 
carriage-blinds  had  to  be  pulled  down. 

A  pleasant  breeze  blew  in  at  the  window.  Adrian  came  across 
and  sat  beside  his  old  friend. 

There  was  something  in  her  face — grave  as  it  was  with  the  per- 
manence of  experience — there  was  something  in  her  voice,  in  her — 
as  it  seemed  to  him — intensified  personality,  that  drew  him  out  of 
himself.  How  was  it  he  had  never  plumbed  the  depths  in  her 
before  ?  A  new  phase  of  sympathy  had  sprung  up  between  them  in 
these  half-dozen  hours,  a  mutual  comprehension  and  understanding, 
different  in  quality  and  basis  from  their  old  friendly  relationship. 
And  the  dim  light  of  the  shaded  lamp  seemed  to  him  to  lend  a 
new  quality,  perhaps  a  new  dignity,  to  her  face.  He  saw  that,  but 
he  saw  also  the  woman's  mature  character  revealed;  her  strength 
and  equanimity,  her  courage  that  was  greater  than  his,  her  woman's 
spirit  triumphing  over  the  selfishness  of  sorrow.  .  .  . 

Dimly  he  began  to  glimpse  that  dawn  of  which  she  had  spoken. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  journey  they  talked  only  of  the 
future,  and  they  talked  with  quiet  hope  and  confidence. 

"You  must  write  to  me  every  week,"  she  said.    "Don't  forget!" 
"Of  course  not.    But  couldn't  we  meet  ?    You'll  be  able  to  come 
into  Paris?" 


406  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  think  I  shall.  And  besides — you've  a  duty  to 
other  people.  Lady  Knoyle  is  eating  her  heart  out  for  you.  Don't 
you  ever  give  a  thought  to  England?" 

"Oh,  well !  Perhaps — now  and  then.  Let's  see — yes,  it's  a  good 
year-and-a-half  since  I  set  foot  on  a  London  pavement.  It  doesn't 
seem  like  that." 

"No,  I  think  it  will  be  better,"  she  said,  "if  we  don't  meet  again 
until  we've  each  fought  our  fight  and  the  victory  is  won." 

He  did  not  fully  comprehend  her  meaning  then;  he  answered: 

"This  winter  Stane  will  be  ours  to  live  in.  In  the  spring  mother 
will  go  to  live  there.  Summer  is  wonderfully  beautiful  on  the 
Three  Hills — most  of  the  wild  flowers  are  out,  the  thyme  scents 
everything,  and  the  days  are  long.  I  shall  spend  my  leave  there. 
You  must  come  to  us  then." 

Muffled  lights  whirled  by.  The  train  rattled  on,  swaying  to 
this  side  and  that.  They  were  soon  to  part — she  to  go  to  her 
future  home  at  Neuilly,  he  to  the  mysterious  heart  of  Paris.  Be- 
yond that  .  .  .  who  could  say?  Yet  there  was  no  pain  for  either 
of  them  in  the  thought.  Both  intuitively  felt  that  they  were 
destined  to  meet  again.  There  was  only  the  regret  of  two  fellow- 
travellers  parting  at  a  journey's  end. 

The  train  glided  slowly,  heavily,  into  the  Gare  du  Nord.  They 
had  little  luggage,  and  going  into  the  street  outside  the  station 
Adrian  (with  bribery)  secured  a  taxicab. 

A  pressure  of  the  hands  told  of  all  they  felt.  And  she  was  gone 
before  he  realised  it.  ... 

He  elbowed  his  way  through  the  crowds  to  the  offices  of  the 
Railway  Transport  Officer,  where  he  had  instructions  to  report. 
Soldiers,  officials,  and  refugees  from  the  newly-invaded  districts 
pushed  and  jostled  him  on  every  side;  impetuous  Frenchmen 
thrust  past  him,  bawling  excitedly;  groups  of  old  women  and  chil- 
dren sat  marooned  amid  their  baggage  in  his  path;  nuns  in  silent 
resignation,  were  perched  on  little  packages,  clasping  old-fashioned 
umbrellas;  middle-aged  women  and  youths  rushed  between  soldiers 
and  officials,  begging  (usually  in  vain)  for  information  or  advice. 

In  a  brilliantly-lighted  creche  opening  off  the  station  platform 


ADRIAN  AND  FAITH  407 

Adrian  caught  a  glimpse  of  American  nurses  tending  waifed  babies 
that  had  been  cast  thus  early  upon  a  topsy-turvy  world. 

His  sense  of  personal  tragedy  vanished  before  this  vast,  impend- 
ing, impersonal  calamity.  .  .  . 

A  newspaper-seller  cried  repeatedly,  in  a  voice  which  seemed  to 
pierce  all  other  sounds,  that  the  German  Army  had  crossed  the 
Marne  and  was  once  more  at  the  gates  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  IX 
A  Vision  of  Paris 


THE  morning  sunshine  came  pouring  into  Adrian  Knoyle's  bed- 
room at  the  Hotel  Paris-Astoria.  It  banished  the  sense  of  impend- 
ing calamity  which  had  been  his  final  impression  of  the  previous 
night.  Life  called  to  him.  A  sense  of  lightness,  freedom,  came  to 
him  such  as  he  had  not  known  since  1914. 

He  felt  equal  to  enjoyment — adventure — gaiety  even. 

He  saw  through  wide-open  windows  the  white  trellis-covered 
walls  of  the  hotel-courtyard  and  the  garden  of  exotic  plants  where 
a  fountain  played.  He  caught  a  glampse  of  a  glass  verandah,  a 
gravel  walk,  one  or  two  beds  of  flowers  and  groups  of  palms  and 
orange  trees  in  circular  wooden  boxes ;  his  eye  lit  upon  little  green 
tables  set  about  in  shady  places  and  upon  a  leisurely  waiter  flicking 
these  tables  with  a  napkin.  He  heard  a  twittering  of  sparrows,  a 
musical  plash  of  water  from  the  fountain,  and  watched  for  some 
time  with  pleasure  the  dancing  pattern  of  light  and  shade  that 
Venetian  blinds  made  upon  the  walls  of  his  room. 

He  thought,  too,  of  Faith  and  their  overnight  journey;  all  that 
seemed  far-off  and  unreal.  He  did  not  dwell  upon  it — did  not^ 
connect  his  present  resilience  with  it.  They  brought  him  coffee  and 
rolls  and  cherry  syrup  in  bed.  That  was  better,  he  reflected,  than 
chicory  compound  in  a  tin  mug!  He  was  loth  to  get  up,  but — 
Paris  called.  A  hot  bath  was  not  permitted  on  week-days,  but  a 
cold  one  would  serve.  He  dressed  in  a  leisurely  manner  and  went 
out  into  the  streets. 

The  streets  sparkled.  Everything  twinkled,  laughed,  and  danced 
this  June  morning.  The  world  sang.  This  city  of  spires  and 

408 


A  VISION  OF  PARIS  409 

towers,  of  great  hotels,  museums,  and  magnificent  monuments,  of 
boulevards,  squares,  wide  streets,  parks,  vast  white  buildings — to 
an  eye  so  long  accustomed  to  the  barren  monotony  of  war's  devasta- 
tion, they  were  an  entrancement. 

He  knew  Paris  passably.  And  it  was  not  long  before  he  per- 
ceived that  beneath  a  surface  dazzling  and  seductive,  something 
lacked,  something  of  the  essential  Paris.  As  he  passed  out  through 
the  hall  of  his  hotel  he  observed  that  it  was  empty  save  for  a  gor- 
geous concierge,  a  polite,  mysterious  gentleman  in  a  tail-coat,  a 
hovering  waiter  or  two,  and  a  couple  of  American  officers.  The 
same  note  of  emptiness,  of  a  main  spring  missing  in  the  powerful 
dynamo,  impressed  itself  upon  him  in  the  streets,  for  all  their  alert 
movement,  varied  animation  and  colour,  ubiquitous  motor  traffic, 
and  shops  fully  and  brilliantly  displayed. 

Those  streets — they  were  a  fascination  to  him.  When  he  grew 
tired  of  walking  he  sat  down  outside  a  cafe  in  the  Avenue  de 
1'Opera  and  was  content  to  watch  the  stream  of  traffic  and  foot- 
passengers  flow  by.  Something  of  the  old  restless  fever  of  1914, 
the  old  intensity,  the  old  craving  for  animation,  music,  light, 
amusement,  stirred  in  him  again;  something  of  that  "inspiration" 
of  youth  which  he  thought  had  gone  out  of  him  two  years  before. 
.  .  .  And  this  was  such  an — experience!  With  a  certain  quiet 
satisfaction  his  mind  dwelt  on  the  overnight  conversation  with 
Faith,  and  he  wondered  more  than  once  what — at  no  great  distance 
away — Faith  might  be  doing  now. 

He  next  repaired  to  a  world-famous  bar  and  imbibed  two  cham- 
pagne-cocktails. Near  to  the  luncheon-hour  he  found  himself  in 
the  Bois,  where  it  was  cool.  He  passed  the  time  of  day  with  an 
old  man  in  a  seedy  frock-coat  and  felt  hat  who  was  sitting  on  a 
seat  reading  the  Echo. 

"Eh,  bien!  Ah!"— he  spat— "the  Boches!  They're  at  Meaux, 
I  see — only  fifty  kilometres  away." 

The  old  gentleman  addressed  a  series  of  incomprehensible  ob- 
servations to  the  world  at  large. 

"Next  week  they'll  be  here." 

Adrian,  as  it  happened,  had  succeeded  in  forgetting  the  war. 


4io  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Now  this  accursed  old  man  came  to  disturb  his  illusion.  But—- 
he would  soon  forget  again. 

The  old  man  continued  to  converse — apparently  with  himself — » 
but  presently  addressed  Adrian  in  particular. 

"Did  m'sieu  hear  the  shells  this  morning?  They  say  a  couple 
fell  near  the  Sacre  Coeur  and  killed  a  woman.  Eh,  bien! — ah! 
eh! — we  have  not  long  to  live  .  .  .  it's  a  lovely  morning."  He 
spat — finally. 

Assenting  to  this  last  incontrovertible  observation,  Adrian  fled 
into  les  Ambassadeurs.  A  row  of  motor-cars  stood  outside. 
Within,  all  was  as  he  had  last  seen  it.  The  restaurant  indeed  was 
nearly  full.  Only  where  Englishmen  had  reigned  supreme,  there 
dallied  now  a  majority  of  uniformed  Americans  and  a  few  French 
aviation  officers.  He  noted  the  usual  fat,  untidy-looking  French- 
men, napkin  under  chin — artists  or  literary  men,  bon  viveurs — 
accompanied  by  women  friends.  There  were  ladies  sitting  in 
couples  and  mixed  parties  making  merry  over  iced  champagne-cup, 
mayonnaise  and  strawberries. 

Adrian  sat  down  at  one  of  the  tables  under  the  outer  awning 
in  a  cool  and  delicate  gloom.  He  ordered  his  luncheon  with  care 
as  befitted  the  occasion:  melon,  ceufs  a  la  portugaise,  asparagus, 
strawberries,  and  a  bottle  of  Bollinger  in  cup.  Conversation  floated 
out  into  clotted  sunlight  and  leafy  shade ;  beyond  the  awning  there 
was  a  vista  of  the  leafy  Bois  and  its  gardens,  flower-beds  and  deep 
pools  of  grassy  shadow.  Not  far  off  a  mowing-machine  was  at 
work,  its  purring  note  attuned  by  memory  to  the  height  of  sum- 
mer. 

Nor  was  it  long  before  he  became  aware  of  sparkling  glances 
from  starry  eyes.  Some  flashed  sidelong  at  him,  some  peered  from 
under  vast  hats,  some  surreptitiously  beckoned. 

In  a  reasonably  short  space  of  time  he  found  himself  basking  in 
the  frank  smile  of  a  small  person  in  a  black  frock,  pearls,  and  a 
natty  little  student's  cap  of  velvet,  who  with  a  friend  sat  at  the 
next  table  but  one.  There  was  no  disputing  her  plumpness;  but 
she  had  a  pair  of  bewitching  black  eyes,  a  heavenly  complexion 
and  a  quite  evident  capacity  for  mischief.  It  was  a  gay  and  a 


A  VISION  OF  PARIS  411 

friendly  and  a  quite  ingenuous  smile  that  dimpled  her  cheeks,  whose 
"warm"  tint  might  have  deceived  the  male  eye  at  no  great  dis- 
tance. A  small  black-shod  and  ribbon-laced  foot  peeped  from 
under  the  white  tablecloth  that  draped  to  the  ground.  Her  com- 
panion, a  tall  fair  young  woman,  attired  in  pink  and  mauve,  also 
threw  him  encouraging  glances,  while  retaining  in  her  large  pecu- 
liar eyes  an  expression  of  languor  and  discontent. 

Adrian  responded  to  the  joint  invitation.  He  smiled  back, 
smiled  repeatedly  and  emphatically;  they  were  all  smiles,  all  three 
of  them.  Determined  not  to  spend  this  day  alone — this  memorable 
day  upon  which  life  had  laid  claim  to  him  again — when  the 
moment  for  coffee  came  he  strolled  across  to  their  table. 

"Bon  jour,  m'selles!" 

"Bon  jour,  m'sieu!" 

"Est-ce-que  je  suis  permis  de  me  s'asseoir  pres  de  vous,  m'selles?" 

"Avec  plaisir.    Comment  ga  va?    You  look — lonely  there." 

She  spoke  English  then!  What  a  relief!  His  knowledge  of 
French  was  that  of  an  educated  Englishman. 

"Vous  parlez  Anglais  tres  bien,  m'selle.  .  .  .  What  will  you 
have?  Liqueur?  Coffee?" 

"Tu  nous  paies  un  verre  chacun?  Une  Benedictine  pour  moi, 
s'il  te  plait,  et  une  pour  toi  aussi,  Lola?  Hein?  Dis  done  tu  es 
gentil,  mon  p'tit  anglais;  mais  tu  ne  paries  pas  frangais,  non?" 

"Un  petit  peu." 

"Oh-h-h,"  chided  the  smaller  of  the  two  with  a  crescendo  drawl. 
"Cest  bien  dommage!"  Then  briskly:  "We  talk  Engleesh.  I 
wish  to  make  better  my  Engleesh." 

"And  I  my  French.  You  speak  English  also?"  He  turned  to 
the  taller  of  the  two  ladies,  who  had  so  far  only  smiled  in  a  fixed 
sort  of  way.  There  was  a  nameless  and,  on  the  whole,  a  repulsive 
attraction  about  this  second  woman.  Tall  and  thin,  with  a  dead- 
white  face,  a  vivid  patch  of  colour  on  each  cheek,  and  a  setting  of 
pale  hair  which  seemed  to  contain  more  of  dross  than  of  gold,  she 
looked  like  a  withered  lily — or  some  ghost  of  a  former  self.  And 
her  eyes,  with  their  oddly  distended  pupils — they  seemed  to  follow 
one  uncannily. 


4i2  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

An  elusive  yet  powerful  scent,  puzzling  in  its  familiarity,  hovered 
about  the  couple. 

The  livelier  girl  intervened  in  response  to  his  last  question. 

"No.    Mile.  Lola  does  not  speak  Engleesh  at  all;  don't  bother!" 

"Un  peu,  Ninette!     Un  peu!     I  speak  a  leetle." 

"Not — how  you  say? — so  as  you  notice  it." 

Adrian  and  Ninette  laughed.    Lola  did  not. 

"I  speak  the  americain — tres  bien,"  she  said  in  an  injured  tone, 
an  unpleasant  expression  taking  the  place  of  the  mirthless  smile. 

Ninette  took  no  notice. 

"You  are  on  permis,  leetle  boy?  I  know  your  r-reg-i-ment — 
your  badge — surely ?" 

"Very  probably." 

"You  know — er — let-me-see — the  small  one — so  fair,  so  funny — 
let-me-see — Gaie — Follay  ?" 

"Fotheringay?    Ah!  yes,  rather!" 

"Ah!  ce-ci,  Forrangaie.  Oh!" — again  came  the  crescendo  drawl 
— "but  he  is  so  droll,  so  amusing  .  .  .  and  his  friend,  leetle  Gerree, 
you  know  him?" 

"They're  both  in  my  regiment." 

"Lola,  tu  connais  ces  deux  petits  fous  anglais,  n'est-ce-pas  ?" 

"Peut-etre.    Je  ne  sais  pas.    Ca  ne  fait  rien.    Au  revoir !    I  go." 

And  with  a  nod  and  with  her  fixed  air  of  languid  indifference, 
Lola  rose  and  walked  out. 

"Ah !  Lola !  poor  Lola,"  her  friend  exclaimed,  looking  after  her. 
"She  has  her  troubles.  She  has  what-you-call  a — past." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"In  New  York,  in  Paris.  She  has  lived  fast.  She  had  a  friend 
— you  know? — a  rich — very  rich  fellow — americain." 

"Is  that  the  only  tragedy?" 

"No.    She  is  getting  old." 

"We  all  are.    She  should  not  sit  beside  you !" 

"Seelly  boy!" 

"Well,  we  all  get  old,  don't  we  ?  Is  that  why  she  looks  like  the 
'ghost  of  innocence'?" 

"Mais,  non!    I  do  not  understand." 


A  VISION  OF  PARIS  413 

"What's  wrong  with  her,  then?     I'm  interested." 

"She — I  whisper — she  .  .  .  drugs." 

"Good  Lord!  Poor  thing!  She's  not  the  first,  though.  And 
the  American?" 

"He  has — liow  you  call  it? — 'gone  west.'  " 

"And  left  her — with  the  past?" 
•    They  laughed.    Adrian  called  for  liqueurs. 

"But  you  thought  her  pretty  ?"  Ninette  demanded. 

"Comparisons  are  not  fair." 

"Her  complexion?" 

"Charming,  but  I  prefer " 

"Her  hair?" 

"One  cannot  beat  Nature."  He  glanced  pointedly  but  insin- 
cerely at  Ninette's  coiffure.  The  latter  remarked  tersely: 

"They  do  not  belong.  C'est  triste.  Poor  Lola!  But  you  must 
not  say  anything  against  her,"  she  added  reproachfully.  "She  is — 
how  you  say? — my — my — ve-ry  dear  friend." 

"But,  now  she  has  left  us ?" 

They  smiled  at  one  another  puffing  at  their  cigarettes  with 
emphatic  amiability — an  amiability  that  outran  their  powers  of 
expression. 

"How  do  you  call  yourself,  mon  cher?    Tom — Dick — 'arry?" 

"Adrian.    Just  that." 

"Ah !  C'est-c.a.  A-d-r-i-a-n.  That  is  nize !  Say — where  go  we 
now,  Adrien  ?" 

"Anywhere  you  like." 

"We  drive?    You  come  in  my  auto — yes?" 

"Delighted." 

"Come  then — mon  ami." 

Leaving  the  Bois,  they  drove  to  shops.  They  drove  to  many 
shops.  Adrian  bought  her  a  present.  Ninette  was  gay  and  com- 
panionable and  chattered  without  ceasing.  The  "auto"  was  a  good 
one  and  the  chauffeur  wore  a  livery.  Couples  like  themselves 
flashed  past  on  the  Champs  Elysees,  in  open  automobiles.  The 
pavements  were  crowded.  No  flaw  could  be  detected  in  the  rip- 
pling surface  of  that  smooth-flowing  life. 


4i4  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

They  finished  up  at  d'Armenonville,  which  was  deserted  save  for 
a  couple  of  ultra  up-to-date  demi-mondaines  drinking  coffee  with 
two  bejewelled  young  Jews.  They  sat  at  a  green  table  under  a 
striped  umbrella  for  a  long  time,  which  seemed  a  short  one,  and 
sipped  non-intoxicating  iced  drinks  through  straws  and  kicked  each 
other  foolishly  under  the  table.  They  laughed  and  chattered — all 
about  nothing.  Then  heat  overcame  them,  and  they  leaned  back 
in  easy  chairs  listening  to  the  hushed  song  of  chaffinches  and  linnets, 
and  through  wreaths  of  cigarette-smoke  watching  the  flycatchers 
dart  back  and  forth  from  their  perch  on  the  opposite  railing. 

"What  a  perfectly  objectless  day!"  he  reflected  with  much  satis- 
faction. Ninette  was  its  motif. 

The  Bois  slept.  Old  men  slept  on  seats,  head  on  breast,  news- 
paper lying  unheeded  on  the  ground.  Nursery-maids  slept  on  the 
grass  beside  their  perambulators,  oblivious  of  faintly-protesting 
babies.  Middle-aged  ladies  and  beggars  slept  in  cool  places  under 
trees.  Slum  children  lay  about  in  heaps.  Even  the  waiters  slept — 
while  waiting. 

Adrian  thought  indistinctly  once  or  twice  of  the  railway-station 
as  he  had  seen  it  on  the  previous  night.  That  was  reality,  this — 
the  world  of  make-believe.  There  one  bit  the  hard  core  of  things 
—there,  and  in  the  churches  perhaps,  and  in  the  heart  of  the 
middle-class  homes.  How  much,  he  wondered,  did  the  girl  beside 
him  know  of — all  that?  And  what  did  it  matter,  any- 
way? .  .  . 

When  they  left  d'Armenonville  and  returned  to  the  streets,  a 
certain  staleness,  a  certain  dusty  emptiness  and  dreariness  seemed 
to  have  descended  upon  Paris.  At  tea-time  Rumpelmayer's,  where 
the  couple  drank  chocolate,  was  utterly  deserted.  In  the  Rue 
Royale,  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera,  a  few 
little  milliners,  a  few  officials  and  business  people  might  be  seen 
hurrying  homewards.  A  pause  seemed  to  supervene  between  the 
heyday  of  afternoon  and  that  other  mysterious  spell  which  trans- 
figures Paris  after  dark. 

They  thereupon  repaired  to  Giro's,  where  at  all  events  illusion 
might  be  sustained.  And  in  the  suffused  glow  of  a  great  white 


A  VISION  OF  PARIS  415 

room  flooded  by  electric  lights  concealed  in  cornices,  they  trifled 
with  cocktails,  with  coffee — with  each  other. 

Maurice,  coal-black,  grinning,  paternal,  with  a  fatalistic  air 
gravely  exaggerated,  brought  queer  conserves  on  an  Oriental  tray. 

"He'll  do  that,"  Adrian  said  to  his  friend  (who  did  not  under- 
stand) studying  the  immobile  face,  "unchanging  and  still  grinning 
to  the  end  of  time — if  not  beyond." 

§2 

So  the  hour  of  the  pleasure-seekers  arrived.  And  the  pleasure- 
seekers  were  crowding  in,  as  they  did  every  evening,  to  the  res- 
taurants and  cafes.  The  Cafe  de  Joie  was  nearly  full,  its  white 
and  mirrored  interior  brilliantly  lighted,  its  yellow  satin  settees 
round  the  walls  crowded,  as  also  were  the  tables  in  the  centre. 
People  kept  coming  in,  an  endless  stream,  and  pushing  along  to  the 
end.  Waiters  darted  and  ran,  acrobatically,  dramatically,  unneces- 
sarily, superloaded  with  plates  and  viands.  It  was  a  typical  war- 
time crowd — chiefly  uniforms,  all  the  women  in  hats,  no  evening 
dress  anywhere.  From  it  arose  a  confused  murmur  in  which  the 
knives,  the  forks,  and  the  plates  conducted  their  own  orchestration 
as  against  the  chattering  voices,  the  treble  laughs  of  the  women,  the 
sharp  cries  of  dissent  or  interrogation,  the  eating,  drinking,  and 
amusing,  the  breathless  intense  business  of  humanity. 

A  florid,  red-faced,  fair-haired  man  in  a  short  evening  coat  and 
black  tie — with  the  air  of  an  English  book-maker — conducted  them 
to  a  table  near  the  door.  A  man  of  influence,  this,  sought  after, 
rather  particularly  disposed  towards  British  officers.  He  smiled 
approvingly  down  at  Ninette,  who  made  a  whimsical  grimace;  he 
beamed  upon  her  companion,  seeing  visions  of  intoxication  and 
extortion. 

"Look! — with  an  americain."  Ninette,  seizing  his  hand,  pointed. 

It  was  Lola. 

There  she  sat  in  pink  and  mauve,  with  her  dead-white  com- 
plexion and  its  two  patches  of  colour,  and  her  strange  eyes  fixed 
on  everything  and  yet  nothing,  smiling  her  mechanical  smile.  And 


4i6  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

again  he  had  the  feeling  of  being  confronted  by  a  ghost,  a  haggard 
and  evil  ghost — of  some  former  self. 

It  was  not  the  American!  Ninette  reassured  him  as  to  that. 
The  entire  world  of  Ninette  and  Lola  was  there — Renee,  Geor- 
gette, Gaby — each  pointed  out  in  turn — all  a  little  drunk,  gestic- 
ulating at  one  another,  and  laughing  piercingly. 

Well — the  couple  waxed  merry  under  the  influence  of  cham- 
pagne. They  sat  close  together,  their  feet  touching  under  the 
table.  They  held  hands.  How  endlessly  diverting  Ninette  was 
with  her  quick-change  face  and  quaint  figure,  her  endless  repertoire 
of  drollery  and  mimic !  And — yes !  it  was  even  possible  she  had  a 
heart — or  was  it  the  champagne?  .  .  .  Nineteen  and  a  finished 
Parisienne!  She  had  accomplishments.  She  was  never  still.  She 
blew  straws  at  old  men,  whistled  between  her  teeth ;  puffed  out  her 
cheeks  and  made  queer  clicking  noises  with  her  tongue;  parted  her 
lips  and  rolled  her  eyes  until,  slightly  alarmed,  he  came  to  the  con- 
clusion they  had  gone  to  the  back  of  her  head;  adopted  a  rubber 
face  and  screwed  it  into  inhuman  shapes;  did  astonishing  things 
with  her  tricky  cap  that  tied  itself  with  velvet  under  her  pert  chin. 
Now  and  then  an  envenomed  look  came  into  her  eyes  when  she 
pointed  at  someone  of  the  sisterhood. 

"Poor  Renee!"  It  was  always  "poor"  Renee.  "How  tired  she 
looks!  (I  know  that  American  too!)  She  has  not  even  troubled 
to  look  nice  this  evening.  That  girl  will  not  last  long.  ...  Ah! 
Denise,  regardez! — there's  a  bad  one!  It  was  she  .  .  ."  (Whis- 
pers, looking  daggers  at  the  enemy.)  "Yes,  and  she  was  forbidden 
Maxim's.  Damn!  She  points  at  me!  She  laughs.  I  snap  my 
fingers  at  her.  I  .  .  ."  (She  extends  five  beringed  fingers  from  the 
tip  of  her  nose.)  "Any  more  insults,  and  I  send  for  Georges. 
Georges  likes  me.  He  will  have  her  turned  out." 

She  constantly  pinches  Adrian's  arm.  And  every  now  and  again 
she  whispers. 

"Ma  tear  leetle  boy!  You  like  me — yes?  You  like  Ninette? 
I  am  pretty — yes?  You  love  me  a  leetle  bit?  ...  Alors! 
Allons!" 

And  through  the  mist  of  the  scent  and  the  cigar-smoke  and  the 


A  VISION  OF  PARIS  417 

champagne,  her  dark  eyes  glow  at  him  like  lamps  in  a  still,  warm 
garden. 

§  3 

The  scene  changes. 

Sitting  close  together,  they  look  down  from  a  height.  To  Adrian 
all  is  trance-like,  unreal,  suffused  with  a  kind  of  headstrong,  wine- 
given  romance. 

He  sees  the  interior  of  a  large  round  building  packed  from  floor 
to  ceiling;  many  nationalities  crowded  into  the  auditorium  and 
the  boxes,  all  the  creme  of  vice  and  the  fine  art  of  sin  to  be  found 
in  the  world  compressed  between  those  circular  plush  and  gilded 
walls  and  that  high  dome,  all  the  dancing  bubbles  of  life,  all  the 
drunken  frolics  of  fancy  boiling  together  in  that  astounding  caul- 
dron of  a  music-hall.  The  atmosphere  is  pungent  with  cigars,  stale 
scent,  and  overcrowded  humanity.  Alternate  spasms  of  violent 
mirth  and  equally  violent  emotion  ripple  over  the  crowd  like  wind 
on  a  wheat-field.  A  dazzling  stage  crowded  with  human  figures, 
elaborate  scenery  in  garish  colours,  a  lantern  shooting  at  the  stage 
violent  beams.  On  either  side  of  it,  a  stout,  tall  female  posed  in 
pink  silk  tights,  wearing  an  imbecile  smile.  Women,  all  women, 
on  the  stage,  in  all  colours,  many  patterns,  wheeling,  weaving 
figures : 

"Like  strange  mechanical  grotesques 
Making  fantastic  arabesques." 

— interweaving,  ogling,  grinning,  smirking,  mincing  and  marking 
time  in  a  whirl  of  painted  faces. 

Then  music.  Music  of  sheer  frivolity,  of  utter  folly.  Wild, 
disconnected  music.  On  the  stage,  the  girls  prance,  going  through 
the  motions  of  the  "Gaby  Glide,"  or  the  "Ragtime  Wedding 
March,"  throwing  out  snatches  of  the  English  music-hall  song, 
"For  you're  here  and  I'm  here,  so  what  do  we  care?"  .  .  .  This 
idiotic  ragtime  jangle — whence  its  power  to  make  life  seem  good, 
hopeful,  liveable,  inspiring?  Adrian  seizes  and  he  presses  Ninette's 
most  willing  hand.  .  .  . 


4i8  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Hush!     A  pause.     A  stillness.     The  stage  changes — it  is  an 
Apache  scene — a  Grand  Guignol  setting.  A  frail  and  distant  voice : 

"Cest  la  valse  brune 
Des  chevaliers  de  la  lune, 
Que  la  lumiere  importune, 
Et  qui  recherchent  un  coin  noir." 

Adrian  starts  and  shivers  like  one  awaking  at  daybreak  from  a 
hectic  dream. 


§  4 

The  curtain  falls.  It  is  the  entr'acte.  Mechanically  Adrian 
permits  Ninette  to  link  her  arm  in  his,  and  with  the  rest  of  the 
throng  they  promenade  around  the  vast  foyer.  She  laughs  and 
chatters,  but  he  has  no  attention  for  her  now.  He  is  lost  in  his 
thoughts,  but  those  thoughts  are  not  of  her.  He  only  wants  to 
be  rid  of  her.  .  .  . 

Alone  of  all  Paris  through  four  dynamic  years  the  Temple  of 
the  Daughters  of  Joy  has  not  changed.  All  the  world  of  Renee 
and  of  Lola  are  there  (in  boxes),  all  the  world  of  Gaby,  Yvonne, 
and  Ninette  (in  boxes),  and  the  world  beneath  theirs  and  the 
under-world  again.  It  seems  to  Adrian  that  for  the  first  time  he 
sees  the  soul  of  Pleasure — face  to  face. 

It  distresses  him.  It  frightens  him.  He  longs  to  get  away — 
longs  for  darkness  and  quiet  and  air  and  space — for  hills  and  the 
sea. 

He  touches  Ninette's  arm. 

"I'm  going,"  he  says.     "You  will  stay?" 

"Mais  non !  Mais  non !  Mon  cher !"  she  protests  emphatically. 
"Cer-tain-ly  not.  You  go — I  go  too."  She  seizes  and  she  squeezes 
his  arm. 

They  pass  down  the  length  of  the  foyer.  Crowds  of  every 
nationality  wander  aimlessly  around  and  around.  All  the  twisted 
saturnine  faces;  all  the  flabby,  gross,  and  sensual  faces;  all  con- 
ceivable expressions  of  vice  and  malice,  of  cruelty  and  evil;  all 


A  VISION  OF  PARIS  419 

features  seared  by  passion,  painted,  rouged,  wrought  by  the  devil; 
all  meanness,  furtiveness,  sordid  craving,  and  grasping  lust  are 
written  there.  Never  a  woman's  passing  face — and  there  are  hun- 
dreds— never  a  pair  of  woman's  eyes  but  on  them  are  stamped  this 
nameless  sign,  plainer,  fouler  than  the  mark  of  Cain.  How  ex- 
pressive of  evil,  more  expressive  than  a  man's  by  far,  a  woman's 
face!  Paint,  powder,  and  rouge,  these  cannot  hide  it — nor  Youth 
nor  Age. 

And  over  all,  among  the  palms,  among  the  little  tables,  in  the 
pale  blue  half-light,  in  the  yearning,  quasi-romantic  music  of  the 
band — they  are  playing  a  pathetically  banal  London  air,  "Hullo, 
my  dearie!" — at  the  back  of  it  all,  a  vast  weariness.  He  looks  into 
sad  eyes — for  among  the  Daughters  of  Joy  there  is  no  mirth — and 
sees  there  only  the  weariness  of  self-willed  children  who  have 
played  too  long  and  too  well. 

Snatches  of  conversation  come  from  the  crowd.  As  they  pass 
out  a  voice  with  a  New  York  accent  says: 

"Well,  cherie,  what'd  you  do  if  the  Boche  came  day  after  to- 
morrow?" 

A  girl's  voice: 

"Oh,  what  do  I  care?    Let  'em  come!" 

Outside — black  night.  In  the  heart  of  Paris  the  Eiffel  Tower 
soars  up  to  the  sky.  From  it  may  be  seen  the  flickering  of  guns, 
the  rising  and  falling  of  star-lights  where,  towards  Compiegne,  the 
German  armies  lie. 


§  5 

The  auto  has  long  ago  been  dismissed,  and  the  couple  walk. 
After  dark  the  Boulevard  Montmartre  is  peopled  with  ghosts. 
They  strut  singly  and  in  twos,  they  strut  noisily  with  men,  they 
slide  by  in  the  shadows  peering  up  at  the  passer,  they  loiter  under 
street  lamps  and  stroll  aimlessly  in  front,  they  flit  round  street- 
corners  and  dart  out  of  the  dim  recesses  of  shop-doors.  And  if  they 
see  a  man  alone  they  creep  up  beside  him,  whisper  to  him,  pluck 
him  by  the  elbow,  even  call  out  to  him  at  a  distance  of  several 


420  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

yards.  To  one  from  the  trenches  it  is  a  strange  experience,  this 
great  formless,  nameless  company  of  spirits — pursuing,  importuning 
— here,  there,  everywhere — so  many  and  so  hungry. 

Presently  the  couple  stop  a  rickety  fiacre  and  rattle  slowly  down 
the  Rue  de  Castiglione,  under  the  great  archway  of  the  Tuileries, 
through  the  courtyard,  over  the  Pont  des  Beaux  Arts,  and  so  across 
the  Seine.  Along  the  Boulevard  Saint  Germain,  past  the  listening 
statue  of  Voltaire.  Silent  and  dark  the  river,  overpowering  the 
mass  of  the  Louvre  on  the  side  they  have  left.  Then  through  a 
labyrinth  of  old  and  narrow  streets,  tortuous  lanes  between  high 
walls,  vast  buildings,  courts  and  alley-ways,  many  churches.  It 
is  impossible  to  recognise  anything.  .  .  .  Whither  are  they  going? 
Neither  knows — or  cares.  Adrian  only  knows  that  the  night  is 
warm  and  close,  that  his  brain  throbs  furiously,  that  two  faces 
confront  him  fitfully,  interchangeably,  perplexingly  like  faces  seen 
in  delirium;  Ninette  only  that  she  has  her  Englishman — still. 

She  nestles  against  him,  her  head  rests  upon  his  shoulder,  her 
arm  entwines  itself  around  his  neck;  in  the  fitful  lamplight  her 
eyes  try  to  reach  his.  Yet  he  is  oblivious  of  her.  He  hates  her. 
He  wishes  only  to  be  alone.  .  .  . 

And  they  are  lost?  No,  the  driver  knows — that  old  man  who 
must  have  driven  a  lifetime  through  these  streets.  Ah !  they're  in 
the  Quartier  Latin !  For  here  is  the  Sorbonne  and  here,  after  many 
windings,  the  rounded  dome  of  the  Pantheon  seen  dimly  against  a 
gun-lit  sky. 

"Mon  cheri!    Mon  cheri!    Kees  me!    Love  me! — a  leetle." 

The  chimes  of  Notre  Dame  silver  to  the  city's  sleep. 

Yes — midnight  and  the  world  forgetting!  A  frightened  moon 
gazing  down,  and  loneliness  and  the  screaming  of  cats.  A  name- 
less figure  flits  by  hugging  the  wall  like  one  ashamed.  Here  and 
there  a  light  burns  in  some  student's  window,  some  student  poring 
over  his  books  or  keeping  late  company  in  his  attic. 

"C'est  la  valse  brune 
Des  chevaliers  de  la  June, 
Que  la  lumiere  importune, 
Et  qui  recherchent — " 


A  VISION  OF  PARIS  421 

The  very  cobble  stones  repeat  it,  the  very  night  echoes  it — and 
so  do  the  dim  old  streets.  It  revolves  in  the  turmoil  of  his  brain, 
mingles  with  faces  and  the  fumes  of  champagne.  .  .  . 

The  city  dreams  and  dreaming  seems  to  wait — this  Paris  that  is 
like  some  wayward,  imperial  woman  in  her  mystery,  her  deception, 
and  her  passion;  her  pride  and  beauty  and  her  joy  of  life;  her 
comedies  and  tears,  her  magnificence  and  wickedness;  her  tre- 
mendous past,  her  future — ?  Her  laughter  at  the  destinies  of 
men.  .  .  . 

"Let  us  go  home,  my  Adrien!    You  are  sleepy — and  I  too." 

Ninette's  voice  is  caressing,  soft  as  the  purring  of  a  little  cat. 

But  he  recoils — yes,  repels  her  roughly.  He  is  suddenly  furious 
with  himself,  averse  from  her.  He  wishes  to  be  rid  of  her — at  all 
costs,  to  be  alone.  He  shouts  to  the  cabman: 

"To  the  Hotel  Paris-Astoria — quickly!" 

He  scarcely  hears,  and  does  not  heed,  Ninette's  weak  cry : 

"Oh  no !  But  no,  Adrien !  You  are  not  going  to  leave  me,  you 
are  not  going  to  leave  me,  mon  petit,  petit  anglais " 

That  broken  snatch  of  a  song!  Buried,  best-forgotten  memories 
touched  back  to  life !  All  the  obliterated  past,  the  imperfect  pres- 
ent ;  -all  the  confused  crowding  faces  of  these  tempestuous  years ; 
all  the  old  faded  atmosphere  of — a  girl  at  a  piano. 

Yet  strangely  it  is  not  the  memory  of  that  face  which  accuses 
him,  which  haunts  him  as  they  rumble  back  over  the  way  they 
have  come,  which  lingers  with  him  through  the  remaining  night. 

Ninette  whimpers  but  he  does  not  notice.  He  is  cruel  to  her 
when  she  tries  to  take  his  hand.  He  thrusts  money  into  it  and  does 
not  know  he  has  done  so.  And  Ninette  still  whimpers. 

And  gun-flashes  light  up  the  night  sky.  .  .  . 

And  out  of  his  uneasy  vision  of  Paris,  revelation  comes. 


CHAPTER  X 
Rencontre 


UPON  a  bitter  evening  of  early  October  Adrian  Knoyle's  battalion 
set  out  upon  its  march  along  one  of  those  roads  which,  having 
traversed  the  Somme  battlefield,  strike  across  the  much-fought- 
over  tract  of  country  between  Bapaume  and  Cambrai.  There  was 
little  to  cheer  the  heart.  The  kits  were  late  in  being  hoisted  onto 
the  transport  wagons;  the  quartermaster  was  correspondingly  an- 
noyed. Tritton,  the  adjutant,  was  in  a  bad  humour;  a  scratch-up 
meal  before  the  start  had  to  be  eaten  under  circumstances  of  chilly 
confusion  which  if  possible  enhanced  its  nastiness ;  most  of  the  cups, 
plates,  knives  and  forks  had  been  already  packed  up,  these  mis- 
fortunes being  apparently  inseparable  from  a  move  at  such  short 
notice.  Nevertheless  the  troops  marched  gaily,  glad  to  be  up  and 
doing  after  four  months  in  the  trenches,  reinforced  by  rumours  that 
the  British  Army  had  "broken  through"  (blessed  phrase!)  at  last, 
that  the  Germans  were  "on  the  run,"  and  that  the  cavalry  had 
entered  Cambrai  several  hours  previously. 

During  the  four  months  that  had  passed  since  Adrian's  visit  to 
Paris,  the  fortunes  of  the  Allied  Armies  had  veered,  bringing  a 
corresponding  reaction  in  the  spirits  of  the  combatants.  Victory 
appeared  to  be  almost  in  sight.  Instead  of  a  desperate  defence 
before  Amiens  and  the  gates  of  Paris,  the  Allied  Armies  were  now 
attacking  along  the  greater  part  of  the  front  and  it  was  the  turn 
of  the  Germans  to  fight  rear-guard  actions.  The  French  had  cap-' 
tured  Soissons,  the  heights  of  the  Aisne  were  in  danger.  Even  the 
line  of  the  Meuse  was  threatened.  Further  north,  the  British  in 
a  series  of  mass  attacks  had  pierced  the  outer  works  of  those  vast 
field-fortifications  known  as  the  Siegfried  line. 

422 


RENCONTRE  423 

In  the  foregoing  operations  Adrian's  Division  had  so  far  taken 
no  part.  Its  share  in  the  earlier  of  the  year's  fighting  had  been 
a  heavy  one.  Until  the  very  eve  of  the  general  attack  in  the  latter 
part  of  August,  it  had  remained  in  occupation  of  the  quiet  trench- 
sector  south  of  Arras  which  had  been  taken  over  early  in  May. 
Just  before  the  advance,  however,  it  was  relieved  by  another 
Division  and  moved  so  short  a  distance  south  as  brought  it  back  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  great  burial-ground  of  the  Somme  with  its 
poignant  memories  of  two  years  before. 

So  the  tramp  eastward  began  and  once  more  Adrian  Knoyle  and 
Arthur  Cornwallis  found  themselves  marching  side  by  side  through 
gathering  darkness  at  the  head  of  the  Left  Flank  Company,  while 
Burns,  sturdy  and  combative,  brought  up  the  rear. 

"Well — for  it  again,  Adrian!"  remarked  Cornwallis  almost 
jocosely. 

"Yes,  but  this  time  I  think  we're  going  through." 

The  bouyancy  of  the  marching-step  and  of  the  lively  drums-and- 
fifes  echoed  the  optimism  of  these  words.  The  familiar  strains  of 
"The  long,  long  trail"  eddied  down  the  column. 

Arthur,  who  was  quick  to  study  his  friend,  had  noticed  in  him 
a  new  optimism  since  his  return  from  Paris,  and  like  a  barometer 
responded  to  it.  For  that  matter,  it  was  the  note  of  the  whole 
army.  He  had  further  remarked  a  new  look  in  Adrian's  face,  so 
long  unresponsive  to  good  fortune  or  ill — a  happier  look.  And  the 
well-meaning  fellow  rejoiced  accordingly. 

Adrian  explained. 

"I  gather  it's  largely  a  question  of  whether  we  get  Cambrai 
and  the  high  ground  west  of  it.  If  we  do,  we  shall  start  open 
fighting — cavalry  and  all  that.  We  ought  to  push  'em  back  to 
the  Rhine,  or  at  any  rate  the  Meuse.  But  from  what  Forsyth  says, 
we're  being  held  up  somewhere — by  some  high  wooded  ground  as 
far  as  I  can  make  out  from  the  map,  which  commands  all  the  plain 
to  the  east.  He  seemed  to  think  it  would  be  our  job  to  tackle  that. 
It  always  takes  us  to  do  the  dirty  work." 

"If  we  do  get  them  back  to  the  Rhine,  they'll  want  to  make 
peace,  won't  they?" 


424  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"I  should  think  so." 

Cornwallis  reflected. 

"Adrian,  how  soon  after  peace  has  been  declared  do  you  think 
we  should  get  home?" 

"Ask  me  another.  You're  out  of  step,  my  boy.  And  your  haver- 
sack's all  over  the  place.  Why  in  Heaven's  name  will  you  use  bits 
of  string?" 

Cornwallis  had  lost  none  of  his  dreaminess,  his  "hopeless"  habits. 
Nor  had  his  soldierly  qualities  improved.  Tritton  declared  they 
never  would  because  he  hadn't  got  any.  On  parade  he  was  every- 
one's despair.  On  the  other  hand,  as  Sutton  facetiously  put  it,  he 
"never  ceased  doing  good"  in  his  platoon,  was  perpetually  inquir- 
ing of  his  men  whether  they  had  mittens  and  books  to  read,  and 
how  often  they  heard  from  home.  Burns  was  caustic  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  efficiency.  And  yet  everybody  liked  Cornwallis,  in- 
cluding the  men  who  laughed  at  him.  At  trench-mortars — to 
which  he  had  been  delicately  transferred  at  Colonel  Forsyth's  in- 
stigation— he  proved  no  more  adept  than  at  drill;  in  fact,  the 
trench-mortar  commander  described  his  handling  of  these  weapons 
as  a  menace  to  the  whole  Brigade.  He  thereupon  returned  to  duty, 
crestfallen,  apologetic,  but  more  willing  than  ever.  He  continued 
to  peer  patiently  and  amiably  at  the  world  through  spectacles;  he 
continued  to  write  poetry — and  print  it;  and  at  intervals  spoke 
sorrowfully  of  Miss  Gina  Maryon  who  had  never  vouchsafed  him 
one  single  line.  He  moreover  continued  to  say  his  prayers  in  the 
most  unsuitable  situations.  In  the  current  jargon,  he  remained  a 
"trier,"  through  and  despite  all. 

After  two  hours'  marching  with  only  one  brief  stop,  they  halted 
for  some  time  under  a  little  ridge  that  formed  one  side  of  a  hollow 
in  which  a  number  of  artillery-horses  were  picketed.  The  sun  had 
gone  down  in  a  loom  of  red  and  grey,  in  a  strange,  distorted  fantasy 
of  ochre,  wind-blown  clouds  shot  with  dying  autumnal  scarlet. 
Early  the  night  became  splashed  and  spangled  with  the  gleam  of 
camp-fires,  and  around  these  fires  and  braziers  groups  of  men  could 
be  seen  warming  their  hands  or  boiling  water  for  tea  in  their  mess- 
tins.  Loud  was  the  laughter  and  the  singing  of  songs,  uproarious 


RENCONTRE  425 

at  times  the  exchange  of  compliments  from  one  fireside  to  another. 
A  stranger  might  have  imagined  that  of  all  these  noisy  fellows  none 
had  a  care  in  the  world — certainly  not  that  they  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  eternity. 

Knoyle  was,  as  he  had  ever  been,  almost  morbidly  sensitive  to  the 
macabre  quality  of  these  nights  on  the  eve  of  battle.  Sleep  he  could 
not,  and,  feeling  a  strong  disinclination  to  lie  down,  he  climbed  the 
low  ridge  that  protected  their  bivouac.  The  spectacle  which  pre- 
sented itself  was  one  of  those  that  haunt  men  through  their  lives. 
There  was  something  supernatural  in  it  and — sempiternal.  Along 
the  horizon  flickered  the  lightning  of  countless  guns ;  here  and  there, 
though  still  far  away,  rose  Verey  lights,  red  and  green,  yellow  and 
white,  and  golden  shower-rockets  and  other  powerful  rockets  that 
seemed  to  cast  their  glimmer  even  back  there.  The  dark  mass  of 
the  country  lay  brooding  between.  It  was  like  a  vast  open  amphi- 
theatre enclosing  within  its  walls  of  sky  all  the  storm  and  passion, 
the  illusion  and  terror,  the  mystery  and  obscurity  of  human  life. 
Watching  from  this  high  spot  was  like  a  man  at  his  birth  whose 
unseeing  eye  looks  out  into  the  future  with  its  glimmerings  of  hope 
and  fate,  its  little  lonely  lights  and  prodigious  unprobed  shadows. 
Only,  in  this  scene  there  lurked  a  sombre  note,  something  wild  and 
melancholy,  something  closer  akin  to  the  end  of  things  than  to 
their  beginning. 

Yet  he  did  not  now,  as  so  often  before,  feel  any  despairing  lone- 
liness of  his  thoughts.  He  never  was  alone  now.  Often  Eric 
accompanied  him  on  the  long  marches — often  Faith. 

He  only  wondered,  as  men  do  at  such  times,  what  this  new — 
and  last? — crisis  of  his  destiny  might  bring  forth.  .  .  .  Looking 
up,  he  saw  the  starlight  serenely  smiling,  the  starlight  that  never 
changed,  that  was  on  the  whole  kind. 


§2 

Soon  the  men  were  awakened  and  they  resumed  the  march  for- 
ward.    So  dark  was  it  that  only  occasional  belts  of  barbed-wire 


426  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

or  German  stakes  could  be  discerned,  and  opening  from  the  road- 
side banks,  deep  trenches  that  seemed  to  face  westward.  On  one 
side  squatted  an  abandoned  tank.  A  little  farther  on  three  dead 
horses  lay  in  the  roadway.  For  the  rest,  there  was  nothing  definite 
to  show  that  they  were  passing  through  country  which  had  been 
in  German  hands  only  twenty-four  hours  before.  Once  the  column 
halted  to  let  a  battery  fire  immediately  across  its  front,  once  in  the 
street  of  a  big  village  whose  shattered  silence  was  uncanny.  Then 
they  were  out  in  the  open  country  again,  with  the  Verey  lights 
marking  a  wide  semicircle  and  the  north-east  wind  singing  its 
wintry  song  in  the  telegraph  wires.  The  chatter  of  machine-guns 
came  nearer,  but  it  was  spasmodic,  and  the  night  remained  unex- 
pectedly quiet.  The  moon  that  should  have  illumined  the  scene 
was  hidden  by  piled-up  clouds.  Shells  began  to  burst  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  ahead,  and  presently  a  large  one  exploded  close  to  the 
junction  of  a  grass  track  with  the  high  road  as  they  were  passing. 
A  few  men  "ducked."  Cornwallis  gave  a  convulsive  leap,  recov- 
ered himself,  and  exclaimed: 

"Oh ! — dash  it !    I  was  thinking  of  something  else." 

Somebody  behind  laughed. 

Then  the  leading  fours  struck  the  pave  of  the  Cambrai  highway. 
Last  autumnal  leaves  on  sentinel  poplars  shook  and  hissed  in  the 
wind.  In  front,  a  vague  shape  loomed  up — that  of  a  great  wood 
surmounting  and  clothing  the  sides  of  a  conical-shaped  hill.  An 
artillery-limber  clattered  along  the  road.  They  came  to  the 
remains  of  what  had  once  been  a  wayside  inn ;  behind  it  pack-ponies 
and  medical  troops  were  sheltering:  a  number  of  wounded  lay  in 
the  lee  of  a  wall.  They  halted.  The  glass  had  been  blown  out  of 
the  windows,  but  in  one  of  the  rooms  some  men  had  lighted  a  fire 
of  dry  leaves  and  sticks  that  had  drifted  in  and  lay  heaped  up. 
Tempted  by  the  cheerful-looking  blaze,  Adrian  entered.  A  man 
sat  nodding  on  a  wooden  box  before  the  fire.  In  a  corner  a  pros- 
trate figure  lay  on  a  stretcher,  partially  covered  by  a  soldier's  great- 
coat. 

It  was  the  latter  drew  his  attention ;  it  worried  him ;  it  fascinated 
him.  The  fire  played  about  it  so  affectionately.  It  lay  so  still. 


RENCONTRE  427 

"What's  it  like  up  there?"  Adrian  addressed  the  figure  by  the 
fire,  jerking  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  wood. 

The  man  proved  to  be  a  quartermaster. 

"Oh!  great  snakes!  it's  been  a  filthy  job.  Our  casualties  'ave 
been  somethin'  crool.  Well,  thank  'eavings  we  come  out  of  it 
to-night.  I'm  waiting  for  them  now.  .  .  .  'Ave  a  cig.?  Give  us 
a  light,  will  yer?  .  .  .  Tar." 

"What's  that  there?"  Adrian  indicated  the  form  on  the 
stretcher. 

"That?  That's  our  Commanding  Officer.  .  .  .  Dead.  'E  got 
a  bullet  through  'is  chest  this  morning  just  after  they  went  over." 

The  wind  howled  outside,  blew  gustily  in,  and  swept  the  cover- 
let aside  from  the  face,  making  the  fire  burn  all  the  brighter. 

It  was  a  jovial-looking  corpse.  The  face  was  that  of  an  oldish 
man  with  a  heavy  fair  moustache.  The  antics  of  the  flames, 
coupled  with  some  smears  of  congealed  blood,  gave  it  the  appear- 
ance of  being  in  the  act  of  a  ghastly  laugh.  The  head  lolling 
rakishly  on  one  side  added  to  this  suggestion  of  grotesque  mirth. 
There  was  indeed  something  so  peculiar  about  the  whole  attitude 
and  expression  that  Adrian  went  over  to  look  closer. 

Glazed  blue  eyes  caught  a  merry  glint. 

Adrian  stepped  back. 

"Good  God!  ...  It's  old  Arden!" 

"Eh?  What!  Somebody  you  know?"  the  quartermaster  mum- 
bled drowsily. 

"Why,  it's— it's  Arden!" 

The  other  looked  up. 

"That's  right.  'Is  lordship  was  our  Colonel.  Met  him  before, 
then?" 

"I— knew  him  well." 

"You  knew  a  good  man,  then — one  of  the  best.  Brave!  'E's 
earned  the  V.C.,  that  old  chap,  half-a-dozen  times  over  since  Vs 
been  with  us.  But  everybody  knew  'e'd  stop  one.  Too  impetuous, 
yer  know,  too  'asty.  'E  never  oughter  been  up  where  'e  was — 
insisted  on  going,  y'know — would  go.  That  was  the  Colonel  all 
over.  An  elderly  man,  too ;  turned  fifty,  I  believe.  'E  'adn't  been 


428  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

with  us  long.  .  .  .  Well — we  shall  never  see  the  likes  of  'im  again. 
'E  was  all  right." 

"Where  are  you  taking  him?" 

"We're  going  to  give  'im  a  decent  funeral  somewhere  'way  back 
when  the  boys  come  out.  .  .  .  'Elp  yerself  to  a  drink  before  yer 
move  on,  won't  cher?" 

"Lead  on!    Lead  on!    Keep  closed  up  in  rear!" 

Burns  was  bellowing  outside ;  the  men  were  beginning  to  shuffle 
forward.  Adrian  turned  to  take  a  last  look  at  Arden  before  join- 
ing them. 

Yes,  there  was  no  mistaking  the  attitude,  the — hilarity. 

"Glad  the  old  colonel's  'ad  a  pal  to  look  at  him  before  'e  goes 
under  the  daisies.  Good-night !"  The  quartermaster  settled  down 
again  to  his  interrupted  doze. 

Adrian's  mind  was  far  away.  It  was  a  hot  August  afternoon. 
Arden  was  standing  at  his  baronial  front-door,  laughing;  his  head 
was  thrown  back  and  slightly  on  one  side,  and  he  was  shouting  to 
Gina,  Eric,  and  himself  "not  to  get  mixed  up  in  the  war." 

Death,  after  all,  was  the  supreme  caricature! 


Yet  as  they  wound  up  a  sunken  lane  into  the  heart  of  the  great 
wood  it  was  not  with  Arden  that  his  thoughts  busied  themselves, 
though  he  did  mutter  to  himself,  "Poor  old  Arden!  Poor  old 
Arden!"  in  a  mechanical  way.  The  fact  was  he  had  grown  too 
accustomed  to  death,  and  in  a  sense  too  contemptuous  of  it,  to 
receive  any  very  acute  shock  even  from  so  unexpected  a  rencontre. 

His  thoughts  instead  flew  half  across  France — to  Faith.  Well, 
the  dawn  had  not  crimsoned  the  sky  for  her  yet!  If  he  could  but 
be  beside  her,  near  her  in  this  second  visitation!  If  only  he  could 
break  the  news  to  her,  make  his  sympathy  known  to  her!  It 
struck  him  as  supremely  natural,  as  indeed  inevitable,  that  she 
should  turn  to  him.  To  whom  else  should  she  turn? 


CHAPTER  XI 
The  Last  Fight 


THERE  were  no  shell-holes,  no  visible  desolation  or  destruction  in 
the  wood.  It  bore  little  resemblance,  as  far  as  could  be  seen,  to 
Delville  or  St.  Pierre  Vaast  or  Sanctuary  Wood.  The  leaves  were 
still  on  the  trees,  though  autumn  had  begun  her  ravages. 

An  occasional  discarded  khaki  jacket,  grey  German  overcoat, 
rifle  or  relic  of  equipment  alone  showed  that  the  fighting  had  passed 
that  way.  The  wood  seemed  immense.  After  twenty  minutes* 
marching,  a  cross-road  that  must  have  been  near  the  centre  of  it  was 
reached.  Wheeling  to  the  left,  they  turned  into  a  long,  straight 
ride  that  seemed  to  rise  steeply  at  the  farther  end.  (Adrian  re- 
membered such  rides  in  the  home  coverts  at  Stane,  where  young 
pheasants  flocked  out  at  sun-down  in  response  to  the  keeper's 
whistle,  as  he  scattered  handfuls  of  corn;  there,  too,  at  night  a 
lamp  dangled  from  a  stick  to  scare  away  foxes.)  The  rifle  and 
machine-gun  fire,  which  for  long  had  been  desultory,  now  suddenly 
became  fierce.  Lights  began  to  go  up  all  round;  bullets  hit  the 
trees  with  a  "smack,"  sizzed,  twanged,  and  zipped  overhead.  It 
was  not  long  before  the  usual  message  came:  "Pass  down  the  word 
for  the  stretcher-bearers";  two  or  three  men  in  rear  had  been  hit. 
From  mouth  to  mouth  meanwhile  was  passed  the  order,  "Keep  well 
into  the  side."  Here  and  there  the  body  of  a  cavalryman  lay  half 
in,  half  out  of  the  ditch.  From  the  high  part  of  the  wood  in  front 
came  the  furious  crackle  of  musketry,  drowned  at  times  by  the 
slow,  methodical  "rat-tat-tat"  of  the  machine-guns  and  the  faster 
rattle  of  the  light  automatics.  Some  muttered  "Wind  up !"  others 
"Counter-attack!" 

429 


430  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Then  something  curious  occurred.  Down  the  centre  of  the 
ride,  and  quickly  in  the  midst  of  the  advancing  troops,  hurried  a 
small  body  of  men.  They  were  bawling  excitedly.  Their  faces  as 
they  approached  showed  chalky-white  in  the  darkness;  they  seemed 
incoherent,  distraught.  At  their  head  strode  a  toweringly  tall 
soldier,  capless,  and  shouting: 

"Retire!  Retire!  They've  broken  through.  They're  coming 
down  through  the  wood.  Get  back!  Get  back!" 

The  tall  man  appeared  to  be  an  officer.  He  chattered  wildly, 
disconnectedly,  yet  with  a  method  of  sense  like  a  drunken  man; 
tried  to  pull  himself  together,  then  wandered  off  again. 

"The  bay'net!"  he  kept  repeating.  "The  bay'net!  That's  the 
only  thing.  Show  'em  the  bay'net,  get  at  'em  with  the  bay'net,  and 
they'll  run.  .  .  ."  He  made  curious,  erratic  movements  with  his 
hands. 

It  was  a  moment  that  called  for  quick  decision — such  a  moment 
as  Adrian  had  long  anticipated.  How  should  he  act?  Colonel 
Forsyth  and  his  adjutant  with  the  remainder  of  the  battalion  had 
gone  round  a  different  way.  Should  he  proceed  on  his  own 
initiative?  .  .  .  Inspiration  born  of  long  experience  came  to  his 
assistance.  He  knew  roughly  from  his  map  the  configuration  of 
the  wood  and  that  a  few  hundred  yards  farther  on  two  rides  crossed 
one  another  at  right  angles.  The  advancing  enemy  must  be  taken 
in  flank,  if  at  all,  and  the  best  way  to  accomplish  this,  it  seemed, 
would  be  to  post  a  Lewis  gun  at  the  cross-rides  and  catch  the  Ger- 
mans as  they  swept  across  the  lateral  ride.  It  appeared,  indeed,  the 
only  chance  of  saving  the  rest  of  the  battalion,  with  which  he  was 
unable  to  communicate,  from  being  cut  off. 

But  whom  should  he  trust  with  this  all-important  mission? 
Burns,  of  course,  was  absolutely  safe.  But  he  wanted  Burns  if  it 

came  to  a  hand-to-hand  fight.  Cornwallis ?  His  heart  had 

many  a  time  secretly  bled  for  Cornwallis.  .  .  .  Arthur  should  have 
his  chance. 

He  passed  along  word  for  him  and  explained  the  situation. 

"When  I  blow  my  whistle,  loose  off  every  belt  you've  got  until 
I  blow  again.  Then  cease  fire  and  wait  for  them  to  come  back 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  431 

across  the  ride.  It's  straight  ahead  to  the  cross-rides.  You  can't 
lose  your  way.  Go  right  ahead,  and  good  luck!" 

"Very  well,  Adrian."  There  was  a  frenzied  eagerness  in  the 
other's  voice,  and  he  disappeared  with  his  gun-team  in  the  darkness. 

Burns  with  two  more  Lewis  guns  was  covering  the  upward 
sweep  of  the  ride.  The  rest  of  the  company  fixed  bayonets  and 
quietly  lined  the  roadside  banks. 

They  waited.  .  .  .  There  is  at  any  time  something  weird  and 
ghostly  about  a  large  wood  at  night.  Darkness  fills  the  spaces 
between  the  trees ;  the  trees  lean  together  and  whisper  and  take  on 
strange  shapes;  in  the  dim  recesses,  vistas  and  secret  places  that 
the  eye  cannot  probe,  the  mind  pictures  imaginary  terrors  and 
unsubstantial  dreads.  The  woodland  seems  peopled  with  a 
shadowy  company  of  forms  and  sounds. 

Hark!  The  crackle  of  twigs,  the  breaking  of  branches.  Here 
and  there  an  excited  shout  and  the  shadowy  form  of  a  scout  flitting 
back.  Adrian  drew  his  revolver.  Every  moment  he  expected  to 
see  a  grey  mob  swarm  out  between  the  tree-trunks.  Three  shots 
from  a  sniper  cracked  out  a  short  distance  in  front.  It  was  a 
prearranged  signal.  He  judged  the  critical  moment  to  have  come. 

His  whistle  sounded. 

One,  two,  three  seconds  passed.  .  .  .  An  increasingly  loud 
rustling  of  leaves  and  crackling  of  branches  came  to  their  straining 
ears.  .  .  .  Further  seconds  passed — a  full  minute.  Still  no  sound 
of  a  Lewis  gun's  whirlwind  clatter.  The  situation  became  perilous. 
The  suspense  was  shuddering;  at  any  moment  they  might  find 
themselves  surrounded.  Had  Cornwallis  failed  him?  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  cursed  the  ill-starred  youth  from  the  bottom 
of  his  heart.  He  blamed  himself,  too.  Imbecile!  Idiot  that  he 
was!  Why  had  he,  a  company-commander,  been  fool  enough  to 
trust  such  a  long-since-broken  reed?  But  it  would  be  the  fool's 
last  chance.  He  should  never  be  forgiven  if,  indeed,  they  emerged 
alive.  He  would  have  to  be  got  rid  of. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  the  Germans  were  close  upon  them. 
Even  now  it  might  be  too  late  to  hold  them  back.  The  crackling 
and  snapping  of  twigs  sounded  immediately  in  front.  The  sense 


432  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

of  unseen  people  moving  became  almost  intolerable.  The  order  to 
fire  trembled  on  his  lips.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  scene  he  had  visualised  became  a  living  fact.  The 
grey  trees  became  grey  Germans,  out  of  the  dripping  brambles 
crept  ogre-like  figures  in  steel  helmets,  carrying  rifles  and  bayonets 
at  the  "ready."  There  were  one  or  two  stifled  exclamations  in 
German.  Adrian  barely  had  time  to  notice  that  the  dim  figures  of 
the  enemy  glanced  furtively  this  way  and  that  as  though  uncertain 
of  their  direction  before  he  yelled  the  word  "Charge!"  His  men 
rose  and  stumbled  forward,  shouting.  A  loud  shout  came  from 
Burns  on  the  left.  Two  revolver-shots  rapped  out,  then  several 
rifles.  There  were  half-strangled  oaths  and  exclamations,  there  was 
hard,  fierce  breathing,  once  there  was  a  squeal  like  a  pig  being 
killed,  and — once  or  twice — the  rasp  of  bayonets.  A  whirlwind 
scattering  of  leaves  followed  one  or  two  sharp  commands  in  Ger- 
man. Then  a  prolonged  pattering  of  feet  that  gradually  grew 
fainter. 

Adrian  yelled,  "Rapid — fire!"  Then  intense  gloom  was  stabbed 
by  pin-points  of  fire.  The  wood  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  volley 
after  volley;  bullets  whirred,  thwacked,  and  ricochetted  from  the 
tree-trunks;  for  some  minutes  the  noise  was  deafening.  .  .  . 

They  saw  no  more  of  the  enemy  that  night — or  of  Cornwallis. 
When  Adrian  and  an  orderly  crept  up  to  the  cross-rides  no  trace 
of  him  or  his  Lewis  gun  could  be  found. 

§   2 

Half-an-hour  later  Adrian  gave  the  order  to  "lead  on,"  and 
they  stumbled  in  single  file  along  a  narrow  path,  the  trees  and 
undergrowth  pressing  close  in  on  either  hand,  the  constant  drip- 
drip  from  the  frosty  boughs  being  the  only  nearby  sound.  The 
darkness  was  such  that  a  man  could  not  see  his  hand  before  his 
face,  nor,  however  close,  his  neighbour's  back.  Not  a  word  was 
uttered.  The  path  wound  now  steeply  between  high  banks,  now 
tortuously,  avoiding  the  trunks  of  fallen  trees,  now  over  stony  and 
now  over  marshy  ground.  The  Germans,  they  knew,  must  still  be 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  433 

close,  though  none  could  say  where.  Occasionally  a  Verey  light  lit 
up  the  moist,  shiny  tree-trunks  and  the  network  of  brambles ;  once, 
when  all  stopped,  the  pale  glimmer  disclosed  a  group  of  men  in  steel 
helmets,  standing  close  together  in  a  tense  listening  attitude  some 
fifty  yards  away. 

Eventually  the  head  of  the  extended  file  reached  the  farthest 
extremity  of  the  wood,  the  latter  stretching  back  along  the  twist- 
ing path  almost  to  the  point  where  that  path  joined  he  main  ride. 
By  his  time  everybody  was  tiring.  No  one  knew  what  to  expect 
or  what  to  do  next,  until  a  runner  arrived  from  Colonel  Forsyth 
with  instructions  to  dig  in  before  daybreak.  Contact  was  obtained 
with  outposts  of  Highlanders  and  dismounted  cavalry,  who  had 
already  beaten  off  two  counter-attacks  that  day.  The  Germans, 
they  reported,  were  established  in  the  north-east  corner,  but  in 
what  strength  could  not  be  determined.  Daybreak  being  no  more 
than  a  couple  of  hours  distant,  there  was  no  time  to  lost.  The 
men,  tired  as  they  were,  got  out  their  entrenching  tools  and  began 
digging,  each  a  hole  for  himself.  There  was  no  grumbling.  They 
were  even  too  tired  to  swear.  The  non-commissioned  officers,  it 
is  true,  were  inclined  to  be  captious,  the  men  being  perhaps  stupid 
from  Jack  of  sleep.  Yet  all  worked  on  patiently,  and  after  a  time 
their  hard  breathing  and  the  grate  of  entrenching  spades  against 
roots  or  stones  were  the  only  sounds  heard.  .  .  . 

Gradually,  almost  imperceptibly,  a  grey-blue,  misty  light  began 
to  filter  in  among  the  trees.  Adrian  watched  with  a  kind  of  fas- 
cinated curiosity  the  dawn  stealing  through  the  woodland,  now  so 
natural-looking  and  quiet — where,  nevertheless,  a  few  yards  away 
death  lay  in  wait.  Presently,  as  sure  as  the  sun  rose,  the  wooded 
hill  would  echo  and  re-echo  with  the  sinister  messages  of  rifle  and 
machine-gun. 

Many  a  time  in  his  boyhood  he  had  crept  out  into  the  great 
woods  that  clothed  the  cup-like  arena  at  the  foot  of  the  Three 
Hills,  where  lay  his  home,  and  watched  the  light  steal  in  among 
the  tree-trunks,  heard  the  birds  awakening,  and  seen  the  first  sun- 
beams gild  the  high,  green  summits  of  the  downs. 

Now  the  light  spread  and  grew  so  that  he  listened  for  the  birds 


434  tf~-*y  OF  REVELATION 

to  awaken ;  but  it  was  as  though  Nature  had  fled  the  place,  leaving 
Man  to  fight  out  his  bitter  quarrel  alone.  No  chatter  of  magpie  or 
jay,  no  woodpecker's  laugh,  no  crooning  of  wood-pigeon  or  wistful 
cry  of  the  soaring  kestrel,  or  sparrow-hawk's  plaintive  whistle,  no 
squirrel's  chuckle  as  he  played  with  beech-nuts  or  acorns.  The 
shy  little  community  that  inhabits  every  French  woodland  had 
vanished.  Only  the  drip-drip-drip  of  the  frosted  trees  went  on, 
and  the  daylight  became  real  and  hard  and  cold. 

§  3 

There  was  in  the  very  centre  and  highest  part  of  the  wood  a 
large  open  clearing,  in  which  stood  three  ramshackle  huts  that  had 
obviously  been  used  by  the  Germans,  partly  as  a  wood-store,  partly 
as  a  tool-shed,  and  partly  as  quarters  for  those  whose  business  it  had 
been  to  fell  and  cut  up  the  trees.  One  of  these  huts,  the  largest, 
had  also  evidently  been  used  as  a  kind  of  office.  It  was  littered 
with  papers,  with  advertisements,  with  portions  of  German  equip- 
ment, with  oddments,  such  as  an  old-fashioned  gramophone,  a  pipe- 
rack,  a  kettle  and  the  like.  On  the  floor  were  several  recent  copies 
of  the  Berliner  Tageblatt,  together  with  a  pile  of  carefully-ruled, 
neatly-kept  pay-sheets  and  accounts.  There  were  also  a  table,  a 
couple  of  chairs,  and  five  or  six  wire-netting  beds. 

Here,  shortly  after  noon  of  this  same  day,  gathered  all  the  officers 
of  the  battalion.  A  conference  had  just  been  held  at  battalion 
headquarters — a  small  shooting  pavilion  nearby.  Orders  had  come 
"from  above"  that  the  Germans  were  to  be  driven  out  of  the  wood 
immediately  and  "at  all  costs." 

Colonel  Forsyth,  looking  tired  and  worried,  briefly  explained 
his  plan.  There  was  to  be  a  short  machine-gun  barrage,  he  said, 
no  artillery  preparation.  The  two  flank  companies,  commanded 
respectively  by  Gerald  Sutton  and  Adrian  Knoyle,  were  to  lead 
the  attack,  supported  by  the  two  remaining  companies,  and  were 
to  capture  the  enemy's  machine-gun  emplacements  (with  which  the 
wood  was  believed  to  be  lightly  held)  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 
Zero  hour  was  two  o'clock. 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  435 

"Speed  is  the  essential  thing,"  was  the  note  upon  which  the 
Colonel  impressively  concluded  his  precis  of  the  situation.  "Once 
you  start,  go  for  all  you're  worth  and  get  in  with  the  bayonet.  .  .  . 
I  needn't  lay  stress  on  the  importance  of  what  we're  going  to  do. 
On  our  success  depends  the  immediate  advance  of  the  Allied  armies, 
for  until  this  high  ground  overlooking  the  Cambrai  plain  is  cap- 
tured there  can  be  no  general  forward  movement,  and  consequently 
no  victory  on  a  large  scale.  I  have  given  my  word  to  the  Corps 
Commander  that  we'll  succeed  where  the  other  battalions  have 
failed,  if  it's  humanly  possible.  I  know  I  can  rely  on  you  all  to  do 
your  best." 

Colonel  Forsyth  was  esteemed  in  his  battalion,  and  his  words 
carried  inspiration. 

At  this  moment  a  diversion  occurred. 

A  forlorn,  pale,  and  weary-looking  figure  limped  into  the  hut. 

It  was  Cornwallis. 

Silence  fell  upon  the  group  of  officers. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Cornwallis?"  Colonel  Forsyth  inquired 
kindly,  but  without  quite  concealing  a  sorely-tried  patience. 

"I — I  went  out  in  front  with  the  Lewis  gun,  sir.     I — got  lost." 

The  Colonel  looked  at  him,  tugging  at  his  moustache. 

'A Veil,  you're  not  fit  to  go  into  this  show.  You're  about  done 
up  already.  You'd  better  get  back  to  headquarters." 

For  a  fraction  of  a  second  Cornwallis's  eyes  met  Adrian's.  The 
youth  winced  and  looked  away  hurriedly. 

"I — I'm  quite  all  right,  sir,"  he  stammered.  "I — I  would  rather 
go  with  the  company,  please,  sir." 

Faintly-amused  glances  passed  between  his  brother-officers. 
There  were  audible  whispers  of  "Poor  old  Art!" 

Cornwallis  shrank  back  into  a  corner  of  the  hut. 

A  bottle  of  whisky  had  been  mysteriously  produced,  and  before 
separating  upon  what  everybody  now  recognised  as  a  desperate,  if 
not  doomed,  adventure,  there  were  "drinks  all  round."  Tritton 
waxed  tepidly  facetious  and  announced  that  after  the  "show"  was 
over  he  intended  putting  everybody  in  orders  for  breakfast  roll- 
call  parade  until  it  was  found  who  had  smuggled  that  bottle  up. 


436  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Somebody  retorted — amid  rather  forced  laughter — that,  on  the 
contrary,  this  individual  ought  to  be  awarded  the  Victoria  Cross. 
For  the  rest,  businesslike  gravity  predominated  in  every  face  except 
that  of  the  boy,  Sutton,  whose  cherubic  countenance  was  smilingly 
happy.  For — his  senior  officer,  Hamilton,  having  been  wounded 
during  the  night — he  had  been  promoted  to  lead  his  company.  Nor 
could  he  forbear  to  exchange  a  final  pleasantry  with  his  old  ad- 
versary, Burns,  as  they  drank  together. 

"Well,  old  hotstuff!"     He  dug  the  elder  man  in  the  ribs. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  G.H.Q.  to  say  these  things  have  got 
to  be  done,"  began  Burns.  "Now,  in  my  opinion,  it's  not  so  simple. 
If  I  had  the " 

"Oh!  well,  you  haven't,  you  silly  old  man!  What's  more,  you 
ought  to  think  yourself  damned  lucky  to  get  a  chance  of  sticking 
a  Boche  before  you  go  underground.  .  .  .  Take  care  of  yourself, 
though,  Methuselah,  old  boy — don't  run  any  unnecessary  risks!" 

He  impetuously  pressed  the  old  fellow's  hand.  A  softened  look 
rarely  seen  there  crossed  the  grizzled  face. 

Colonel  Forsyth  took  his  stand  by  the  door,  watch  in  hand.  The 
whisky-bottle  was  passed  round.  Everybody  drank  except  Corn- 
wallis.  Nobody  happened  to  notice  him  in  his  corner  or  the  look 
of  almost  defiant  resolution  that  he  had  forced  into  his  face. 

The  minutes  ticked  by.  .  .  . 

Adrian,  whose  heart  beat  rapidly  beneath  a  calm  exterior,  loaded 
his  revolver  and  adjusted  his  equipment.  Burns  did  likewise. 
Upon  all  faces  was  the  strained  look  of  men  who  try  to  face 
lightly  a  desperate  situation.  Tritton  raised  his  flask. 

"To  our  next  merry  meeting!" 

Colonel  Forsyth  snapped  down  the  lid  of  his  watch.  "Time's 
up,  I  think,"  he  said  quietly. 

§4 

They  filed  out  into  the  pale  uncertain  sunshine  of  a  typical 
autumnal  afternoon.  The  blue  sky  was  flecked  with  dark  and 
gleaming  clouds  that,  driven  before  a  biting  north-east  wind,  fore- 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  437 

boded  snow.  A  bank  of  leaden  grey  grew  out  of  the  west;  they 
shivered  as  they  met  the  icy  blast.  Oaks  and  saplings  were  creak- 
ing, whining,  and  whispering  together  as  they  had  probably  done 
here  for  generations.  It  was  one  of  those  days  when  Nature 
is  at  her  cruellest,  when  she  seems  to  mock  us  poor  mortals — to 
mock,  deceive,  and  scourge. 

The  business  of  the  afternoon  was  explained  to  the  men  by 
their  platoon-commanders;  all  were  calm,  patient,  and  prepared 
in  spirit.  Quietly  and  quickly,  each  platoon  crept  down  into  the 
sunken  road  and  climbed  up  the  opposite  bank,  which  was  to  be 
the  jumping-off  place. 

Close  at  hand  under  that  bank  lay  six  tall  Pomeranian  Grena- 
diers in  grotesque  attitudes  of  death.  Evidently  they  had  been 
shot  down  together.  The  six  waxen  faces  expressed  many  and 
strange  things,  adding  to  the  puzzle  which  the  dead  cannot  help 
the  living  to  solve.  Upon  one  was  writ  surprise,  upon  another 
dread,  upon  a  third  peace,  upon  a  fourth  sleep,  upon  a  fifth  terror, 
upon  a  sixth — emptiness. 

Then  the  sunlight  faded  out.  A  storm  of  sleet  swept  up  the 
sunken  road,  the  little  white  particles  danced  and  tossed  as  they 
were -driven  before  the  wind.  The  trees  rocked  and  moaned;  the 
black  leaves,  that  had  lain  so  still,  now  stirred  and  spun  and 
whirled. 

The  greyness  of  everything  sent  a  chill  to  the  heart.  At  a 
muttered  word  of  command  the  men,  grave  and  quiet,  fixed 
bayonets  and  crept  a  little  closer  up  to  the  lip  of  the  bank.  Already 
the  machine-guns  were  talking,  and  there  came  an  answering 
fire  from  a  German  gun  in  front. 

Captain  Knoyle  blew  his  whistle.  .  .  .  The  first  wave  of  the 
company  under  Burns  went  over  the  bank  slightly  in  advance  and 
to  the  right  (according  to  plan),  vanishing  in  the  undergrowth 
and  high  brambles.  Then  Cornwallis,  white  to  the  lips,  jumped 
up  and  led  the  way.  He  thrust  through  the  bushes  ahead  of  his 
men  swiftly,  steadfastly,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left,  but  with 
features  firm-set,  like  a  man  running  to  win  a  race.  It  was  as 
though  he  feared  his  resolution  might  fail  him  at  the  last.  .  .  . 


438  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

And  the  men — who  had  hesitated  at  first — followed.  Dodging  and 
running  to  this  side  and  that,  Cornwallis  kept  well  ahead  of  every- 
body. Adrian,  in  the  centre,  tried  to  maintain  direction.  A 
machine-gun  fired  uninterruptedly  immediately  in  front.  Away  to 
the  left  another  had  opened — the  place  was  alive  with  them.  Rifle- 
fire,  too,  had  begun.  Somewhere  ahead,  the  Germans  could  be 
heard  shouting  for  their  supports.  All  together,  and  well  in  line, 
the  three  platoons  came  to  an  open  space,  a  kind  of  glade.  With 
a  vague  feeling  of  surprise  Adrian  noticed  a  short  distance  to  his 
right  a  group  of  khaki  figures  lying  prostrate  in  a  pool  of  sunlight 
on  a  mossy  floor — one  in  front  lying  on  its  back,  then  two  or 
three,  then  others.  His  eye  focussed  instantly  on  a  grey,  lined 
face,  on  grey  wisps  of  hair  blown  about  by  the  wind.  It  was 
Burns. 

The  platoon  must  have  been  wiped  out.  .  .  . 

Well  ahead  of  their  men,  Adrian  and  Cornwallis  rushed  on 
across  the  open  space  in  front,  the  former  realising  in  a  flash 
that  they  were  right  on  top  of  a  machine-gun — that  it  could  not 
be  more  than  fifteen  yards  away.  It  opened  point-blank  at  them. 
"Get  down!  Get  down!"  Those  in  rear  threw  themselves  flat. 
A  rush  of  bullets  knocked  up  earth  about  their  feet  and  furrowed 
up  the  ground  and  ricochetted  against  the  trees. 

Adrian  suddenly  knew  nothing. 


When  he  recovered  consciousness  it  was  to  sickness  and,  across 
the  forehead,  blinding  pain.  He  could  see  light  only  through  a 
red  mist.  Something  seemed  to  have  gone  from  his  head  or  his 
brain — some  integral  part  of  it;  his  temples,  his  face,  his  neck 
were  soaking  wet.  When  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  head  he  found 
that  the  shape  and  texture  of  his  forehead  had  mysteriously  altered ; 
instead  of  being  hard  and  round,  it  was  spongy  and  flat.  He  smelt 
blood,  saw  blood  on  his  hands — tried  to  raise  his  head,  and  could 
not. 

An  agonised  voice  whispered  in  his  ear :  "I'm  here,  Adrian.  Lie 
still i  Lie  still!" 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  439 

He  could  think  of  nothing,  for  nothing  was  clear  to  him.  Then 
wave  after  wave  of  shattering  sound  seemed  to  break  across  his 
consciousness — and  he  remembered.  It  was  agony  to  move  his 
head,  but,  turning  it  a  little,  he  saw  Cornwallis  lying  flat  beside 
him. 

"Keep  still,  Adrian !  For  the  love  of  God,  keep  still !  They're 
only  a  few  yards  away." 

He  could  feel  Cornwallis's  body  against  his  own,  and  it  was 
trembling  like  a  live  wire. 

He  saw  not  only  Cornwallis  now,  but  knife-like  sunbeams  play- 
ing upon  the  russet  tints  of  the  little  glade  in  which  they  lay. 
They  were  close  up  against  a  single  young  oak-tree,  upon  which 
bullets  thwacked  every  time  the  machine-gun  swept  round.  It 
seemed  that  he  must  have  been  unconscious  for  hours;  yet  he 
could  only  have  been  stunned.  He  gradually  realised  that  they 
lay  between  opposing  forces.  A  number  of  their  own  men  were 
firing  from  a  shallow  dip  twenty  yards  in  rear  as  they  advanced. 
Riflemen  and  Lewis  gunners — eight  or  nine  in  all — were  coming 
on  in  little  rushes,  the  latter  out  in  the  open  now,  giving  steady 
covering  fire,  as  they  had  been  instructed  to  do  by  himself  times 
out  o-f  number  on  the  field-range.  Of  this  particular  field-practice, 
indeed,  following  Eric's  tradition,  Adrian  had  made  a  speciality. 
Had  not  the  Left  Flank  team  won  the  inter-company  Lewis  gun 
competition  ?  And  now,  helpless  though  he  was,  he  watched,  with 
a  strange  thrill  of  pride,  his  No.  I  gunners  crawl  forward,  rest 
their  guns,  draw  back  the  cocking-handle,  adjust  the  magazine  on 
the  post,  aim  steadily,  and  fire  burst  after  burst. 

The  gunners  were  doomed — he  knew  it.  And  first  this  man 
fell  backwards  squirming  and  groaning,  then  another  rolled  quietly 
over  and  lay  across  his  gun.  Still,  the  riflemen — only  a  handful 
of  them  now — came  on  behind,  blazing  away  clip  after  clip  while 
their  company-commander  lay  and  groaned  and  watched.  Each 
man  in  turn  was  hit  as  he  crossed  the  bullet-swept  area — they 
tumbled  over,  squirming  like  shot  rabbits.  One  man  struck  in  the 
ankle  spun  rapidly  round  and  round,  shouting  with  pain  till, 
blindly  trying  to  crawl  back  to  cover,  he  was  shot  again.  Two 


440  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

men  had  fallen  across  each  other — one  dead,  the  other  mortally 
wounded.  Every  few  minutes  the  latter  would  make  fruitless 
efforts  to  rise  and  crawl.  For  these  two  the  worst  was  reserved. 
Through  the  air  sailed  a  little  silent  spot  of  light.  Adrian 
recognised  it  as  a  phosphorous  bomb ;  he  held  his  breath.  Descend- 
ing upon  the  topmost  of  the  two  prostrate  figures,  it  slowly  flared 
up.  At  once  the  dead  man  was  burning;  the  other,  his  clothes 
alight,  dragged  himself  painfully  a  few  yards,  then  lay  still,  face 
downwards. 

The  two  officers  pressing  up  against  the  tree-trunk  were  now 
isolated.  Heavy  firing  to  right  and  left  proclaimed  that  the 
attack  had  spread — that  the  whole  front  was  now  engaged.  When- 
ever the  machine-gun  swept  round  Adrian  could  hear  Cornwallis 
mutter  to  himself,  "My  God!  Oh,  my  God!"  and  he  dug  his 
nails  into  the  ground.  To  try  and  cross  that  sunlit  space  to  a 
shallow  dip  among  some  brambles  which  offered  the  nearest  cover 
seemed  certain  death.  Again  and  again  at  point-blank  range  the 
machine-gun  swept  round.  Each  felt  that  it  was  only  a  question 
of  moments  before  the  end  came.  Still,  the  slim  oak  tree  and  a 
motionless  horizontal  with  the  ground  protected  them.  Cross- 
bullets  from  another  machine-gun  now  began  to  go  high  overhead. 
It  was  evident  that  the  wood,  far  from  being  lightly  held,  was 
defended  in  great  strength.  Minutes  dragged  by  like  hours,  and 
what  period  of  time  they  lay  there  neither  could  have  told.  Only 
the  wood  seemed  gradually  to  grow  darker.  There  were  intervals, 
too,  longer  and  longer  intervals,  between  each  shattering  burst 
of  the  machine-gun. 

Adrian,  bleeding  and  growing  weaker,  whispered  to  Cornwallis 
during  one  of  these  interludes: 

"Get  back,  Arthur — now — while  you  can!  Don't  bother  about 
me." 

"No.     We'll  go  together." 

"Run  for  it — run."    Adrian  could  say  no  more. 

After  a  further  quarter-of-an-hour's  silence  Cornwallis's  face,  be- 
spectacled and  timid,  peered  into  his. 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  441 

"They're  quiet  now,  Adrian.  I  think  we'd  better  try  and  get 
away." 

The  wounded  man  was  dragged.  It  was  agony.  Everything 
spun  round  and  round  in  an  opaque  red  mist.  He  could  hear 
Cornwallis,  panting  and  straining,  exerting  all  his  inadequate 
strength  to  propel  them  both  across  the  open  space.  He  lay  a, 
helpless  bundle  across  his  friend's  back,  his  legs  trailing  behind. 

Cornwallis  crawled,  pushing  himself  forward  with  his  elbows. 
Their  movemnt  must  have  looked  like  that  of  some  great  tortoise. 
Twenty-five  yards  to  cover — twenty-five  yards  of  grass  and  sun- 
light. Even  now  they  might  not  be  observed,  the  young  oak-tree 
might  mask  the  enemy's  vision.  Already  they  were  half-way.  .  .  . 
Then  the  machine-gun  opened.  Bullets  skimmed  their  backs, 
kicked  up  grass  and  soil,  spattered  earth  around  them.  Cornwallis 
redoubled  his  efforts,  panting  and  groaning  in  a  frenzy  of  exertion. 
A  fringe  of  brambles  showed  how  near  to  safety  they  were.  A 
few  yards  more  and  it  would  be  within  arm's  reach.  Now  they 
were  on  the  very  lip  of  the  shallow  depression,  with  its  carpet  of 
dark,  discoloured  leaves.  They  only  had  to  roll  into  it. 

Saved!  .  .  . 

In  that  instant,  Cornwallis  uttered  a  short,  sharp  cry.  A  pro- 
longed vibration  quivered  through  his  frame.  He  gave  a  little 
whimper,  rolled  forward — and  lay  still. 

Adrian  must  have  lost  consciousness  again  then,  for  when  he 
awoke  twilight  was  falling.  A  weight  lay  across  him — at  first  he 
thought  it  was  a  heavy  bough.  Then  he  saw  Cornwallis's  dead 
face  lying  among  the  leaves  beside  his  own. 

§5 

The  frost  came  down.  The  velvety  sky  began  to  twinkle  with 
stars.  Some  distance  away  he  could  hear  sounds  of  digging.  Close 
at  hand  the  Germans  were  creeping  about  in  the  undergrowth; 
and  now  a  bomb  would  be  thrown  and  now  star-lights,  going 
up  all  round,  illuminated  the  glistening  trunks  of  the  trees.  Then 
firing  set  in  wildly  along  the  whole  line,  accompanied  by  the 


442  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

familiar  snap  of  the  rifle-bolts,  and  the  rattle  of  Lewis  guns  and 
machine-guns.  After  a  while  these  died  away  into  comparative 
silence.  Once  all  the  German  batteries  opened  like  a  roll  of 
thunder,  and  for  half-an-hour  the  sky  was  alight  and  a-quiver; 
then  gas-shells  came  groaning,  grunting  overhead. 

Adrian  grew  cold.  The  blood  about  his  head  coagulated,  stif- 
fened. He  dragged  himself  from  beneath  the  body  of  his  friend. 
They  thus  lay  side  by  side  as  they  had  lain  in  bivouac  and  billet. 

He  apprehended  the  oncoming  of  death — "arms  wide  to  em- 
brace, sleep  strong  to  enfold,  a  friend  there,  faithful  and  true." 

Yet  how  he  longed  to  live! 

A  long  time  passed.  Once  when  a  star-shell  went  up  he  saw 
Cornwallis  lying  beside  him,  and  was  shocked  by  the  caricature 
Death  had  made  of  his  poor,  weak  face.  His  spectacles,  broken, 
were  tilted  at  a  peculiar  angle  on  his  nose,  his  untidy  hair  tumbled 
about  his  forehead;  these,  together  with  some  brown  smears  about 
the  corners  of  his  mouth,  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  badly 
"made-up"  comedian.  If  Arden  in  death  had  seemed  to  laugh, 
Cornwallis  was  laughable.  And  that,  after  all,  he  had  been — 
in  life. 

About  the  middle  of  the  night  wild  cries  came  out  of  the  sky. 
"Honk!  Honk!  Honk!" — and  there  was  a  sound  as  of  a  mighty 
rushing  wind.  He  knew  that  sound.  It  was  the  flight  of  the 
wild  geese  down  from  the  autumnal  North.  It  was  as  if  the 
souls  of  the  faithful  were  fleeing,  distracted,  from  a  fallen  world. 

A  phase  of  mental  drowsiness  succeeded;  he  pondered  quietly 
over  many  things.  Dreams  and  fancies,  dreams  and  fancies  stole 
upon  his  mind — those  merciful  dreams  which  clothe  reality  in 
happiness  and  peace.  .  .  .  Why  and  whence  and  whither — who 
should  say?  And  where  was  the  place  of  beauty  in  this  self- 
destructive  creation?  The  wood — it  must  have  been  fair  enough 
in  spring-time,  and  summer.  Even  now  it  held  the  pleasant  con- 
tours, the  russet  and  mahogany  colouring,  the  warm  red-and-black 
tints  of  the  falling  year.  But  its  little  community  of  birds  and 
beasts,  its  immemorial  silence,  its  dim  and  secret  places,  its  wind- 
rocked  solitude  that  had  remained  unbroken  for  generations :  when 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  443 

this  horror  was  over-past  and  themselves  forgotten,  would  those 
calm  and  beautiful  things  return  again? 

That  was  his  happier  thought.  And  out  of  the  tangle  of  his 
doubts  and  questionings  and  vague  uncertainties  understanding 
came  at  length.  .  .  .  Cornwallis,  who  was  weak  and  a  failure, 
who  had  endeavoured  and  wrestled  with  himself,  who  had  suf- 
fered— he  at  the  last  had  triumphed;  those  Lewis  gunners,  those 
sleepers  yonder  who  knew  nought  of  God,  who  never  thought  of 
themselves,  who  never  approached  in  imagination  their  own  sub- 
limity— out  of  the  humble  simplicity  of  their  lives  had  been 
achieved  the  greatest  of  all  things. 

So  he  knew — though  it  were  his  last  conscious  thought — that 
there  moved  in  the  world  something  greater  than  fear  or  grief 
or  mental  agony  or  earthly  pain — some  human  force,  undeniable, 
that  triumphed  over  these  and  surpassed  civilisation  and  vanquished 
the  powers  of  the  Prince  of  Darkness  himself. 

A  sound  of  shouting  broke  in  upon  these  dreams. 

Voices  came  as  a  far-off  murmur  to  his  ears.  .  .  . 

"Lead  on!  Lead  on!  Advance!"  The  voice,  he  thought,  was 
Button's. 

A  bugle  sounded. 

"Where  are  they?" 

"Gone.  Cambrai's  taken.  They're  falling  back  all  along  the 
line." 

"Advance!    Advance!" 

A  faint  light  grew  in  the  east,  paling  the  tree-trunks.  Adrian's 
eyes  closed.  His  hand,  reaching  out,  clasped  that  of  Cornwallis. 


END  OF  PART  THE  FOURTH. 


PART  THE  FIFTH: 
PEACE 


And  1  saw  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth:  for  the 
first  heaven  and  the  first  earth  were  passed  away;  and 
there  was  no  more  sea. 

And  I  John  saw  the  holy  city,  new  Jerusalem,  coming 
down  from  God  out  of  heaven,  prepared  as  a  bride 
adorned  for  her  husband. 

And  I  heard  a  great  voice  out  of  heaven  saying,  Behold, 
the  tabernacle  of  God  is  with  men,  and  he  ivill  dwell 
with  them,  and  they  shall  be  his  people,  and  God 
himself  shall  be  with  them,  and  be  their  God. 

And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes; 
and  there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow,  nor 
crying,  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain;  for  the 
former  things  are  passed  away. 

REVELATION  XXI,  1-4. 


CHAPTER  I 

Converging  Courses 


AN  October  afternoon  in  London. 

Soft,  pearl-grey  light  filling  a  room  high  up  at  the  top  of  a 
great  house  in  Mayfair.  Two  beds  in  the  room,  one  occupied. 
Silence  in  the  room.  .  .  . 

Adrian  Knoyle  had  been  lying  in  a  state  of  coma  for  neany 
a  week.  His  head  was  bandaged;  he  might  as  well  have  been 
blind.  For  days  in  semi-consciousness,  he  had  been  wondering 
and  asking  what  had  happened  and  where  he  was — there  seemed 
to  be  a  conspiracy  not  to  tell  him.  Only  from  time  to  time  an 
authoritative  woman's  voice  said: 

"Keep  still!  keep  still!  keep  still!  Don't  move.  Don't  touch 
those  bandages,  or  I  shall  be  very  cross." 

He  "had  tried  to  lift  them.     He  wanted  to  see  the  light. 

There  was  something  wrong  with  his  head;  he  could  not  say 
what.  It  did  not  exactly  hurt;  but  there  was  a  worrying,  un- 
natural pressure,  a  strange  feeling  across  the  brows.  He  had 
phases  of  dull  pain  and  of  sickness.  Once  he  had  heard  a  man's 
voice — a  cheerful,  irritating  voice — say: 

"By  Jove,  this  chap's  had  a  wonderful  escape;  it  must  have  just 
glanced  across  the  forehead — so.  Severe  concussion,  no  cranial 
damage  .  .  .  nothing  cerebral  .  .  .  he'll  do  all  right." 

Adrian  took  interest  in  such  remarks  merely  in  so  far  as  they 
might  have  referred  to  somebody  else. 

It  was  as  though  he  had  been  asleep  a  long  time  and  had  hardly 
yet  awakened.  He  knew  now  that  he  was  in  London,  in  hospital ; 
but  recollection  carried  him  no  further  than  a  wood,  a  sunlit  open 
space,  and  a  racketing  fury  of  sound.  He  recalled  the  attack 

447 


448  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

and  the  sensations  just  before  the  attack.  After  that  nothing  but 
the  comic  look  on  Cornwallis's  dead  face.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  want  to  think.  When  recollection  crowded  back 
upon  him  he  had  no  wish  to  disentangle  it.  He  wanted  only  to 
lie  still,  to  listen  to  the  far-off  London  sounds,  to  luxuriate  in 
the  sense  of  being  where  he  was,  and  to  picture  in  his  mind  the 
life  of  the  familiar  town.  He  had  not  indeed  at  first  realised 
that  he  was  in  hospital,  but  had  an  idea  that  he  was  at  home 
in  Eaton  Square.  Yet  he  was  not  particularly  curious  on  the 
subject  at  all;  he  could  not  be  troubled  to  think. 

The  door  of  the  room  softly  opened  and  he  could  hear  whisper- 
ings. 

"Will  it  really  be  all  right?" 

"Just  five  minutes.     No  more,  please." 

"I  only  want  to  peep  at  him.    I'll  be  ever  so  quiet." 

The  door  closed.     Footsteps  came  tip-toe  towards  his  bed. 

Was  it  the  nurse — or  who? 

He  became  aware  of  someone  looking  down  at  him.  He  only 
wished  to  continue  his  dreaming;  he  resented  being  disturbed — 
unless  it  was  his  mother. 

Quick,  short  breaths.  Whoever  it  was  bent  down.  Light 
pleasant  breaths,  upon  his  face  and  neck.  A  cool  hand  touched 
his.  Two  or  three  minutes  passed.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  woman,  of  course.  But  it  was  not  his  mother,  who 
could  not  have  approached  swiftly  like  that.  He  was  interested 
at  last.  Who  could  it  be? 

Risking  his  nurse's  wrath  he  deliberately  raised  his  bandages 
and  opened  his  eyes.  Two  blue  eyes  met  his.  A  quiet  solicitous 
gaze  met  his.  .  .  .  There  was  no  mistaking  it. 

She  put  a  finger  to  her  lips.  Her  face  was  framed  in  black 
and  a  black  veil  had  been  lifted  from  it.  Her  wavy  fair  hair 
showed  at  the  sides  above  pearl  ear-rings. 

"Hush!    We  mustn't  talk." 

Was  there  any  need  to  talk? 

She  gazed  down  at  him  thoughtfully  and  rather  maternally,  as 
women  do  when  tending  someone. 


CONVERGING  COURSES  449 

"I  got  a  week's  leave  because  of  father's  death.  I  heard  you 
were  here.  So  I  came." 

She  smiled,  but  there  was  a  deep  seriousness  in  her  eyes. 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it " 

"Hush!     Not  now.     Another  time." 

The  five  minutes  were  nearly  up.  Yet  human  destiny  is  not 
decided  by  numbers  of  minutes  or  of  hours  or  of  words  spoken. 

Question  and  answer  passed  between  them,  though  no  word  was 
uttered. 

Only  the  beautiful  soft  pearly-grey  London  light  flooded  the 
room.  .  .  . 

After  a  while  she  bent  down  and  kissed  him. 


On  this  same  October  afternoon  a  girl  sat  in  the  drawing-room 
of  a  flat  in  that  same  quarter  of  London.  Here,  too,  the  soft  blue 
light  came  flooding  in.  The  girl  sat  alone,  perched  on  the  fender- 
stool.  An  open  newspaper  lay  beside  her.  She  gazed  into  the 
fire,  the  fine,  slender  lines  of  her  figure  accentuated  by  this  half- 
turned  position. 

Her.  face  was  very  pale  and  its  expression  not  happy. 

She  sighed  once  or  twice,  as  though  a  weight  of  anxiety  lay 
upon  her,  and  then,  taking  up  the  newspaper,  read  aloud: 

"Captain  Sir  Adrian  Knoyle,  Bart.,  has  been  admitted  to 
the  Curzon  House  Officers'  Hospital,  Curzon  Street,  Mayfair, 
suffering  from  a  bullet  wound  in  the  head.  His  condition  is 
not  dangerous." 

Rosemary  Meynell  resumed  her  fire-gazing. 

"He's  in  London  .  .  .  he'll  recover  .  .  .  and  we  shall  meet." 

She  spoke  these  words  slowly  aloud,  as  though  trying  to  es- 
tablish their  full  significance. 

"Something  must  be  done — the  sooner  the  better.  At  any  rate, 
my  mind's  made  up.  I  know  ...  oh!  absolutely  beyond  a  doubt 
— that's  the  great  thing.  It's  only  a  question  of  whether  .  .  . 


450  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

funny,  though,  how  one's  mind  makes  itself  up  all  in  a  minute! 
It's  a  great  thing  that.  ...  Be  firm  with  yourself,  little  Rose- 
mary! Don't  be  an  ass!  Pull  yourself  together.  Have  it  out 
right  away — and  finish  it  dead — for  ever." 

"Finish  it  dead — for  ever,"  she  repeated.  "If  one  only  could. 
.  .  .  Oh !  to  get  away  from  it  all !  But  we  will.  We'll  go  right 
away  to  Stavordale — just  mamma  and  I.  I'll  hunt  all  the  winter, 
and  then  in  the  spring  .  .  .  come  back  and  start  afresh." 

She  rose  and  went  over  to  a  looking-glass  that  hung  on  the  wall. 

"Will  he  recognise  me?  Have  I  changed  a  lot? — I  must  have. 
Is  there  any  speaking  difference  in  me,  though?  Does — that  sort 
of  thing — change  one  externally?  Gina  says  not.  .  .  .  My  God, 
but  I  am  white  this  afternoon.  If  it  was  anybody  but  that — — " 
a  look  of  contempt  crossed  her  features — "I'd  touch  up  a  bit." 

An  electric  bell  rang. 

"There  it  is!  Now  for  it.  Adrian,  be  with  me!  Wait  a 
minute,  though!  .  .  .  yes,  I  think  I  must.  ...  It  gives  one  such 
strength,  such  confidence.  But — never  again!" 

She  moved  quickly  across  the  room  to  a  small  drawer  in  a 
bureau,  unlocked  it,  and  took  out  a  gold-enamelled  Louis  Quatorze 
snuff-box.  Opening  it,  she  inhaled  a  deep  breath,  as  one  takes 
snuff,  and  replaced  the  box  in  the  drawer.  She  then  resumed  her 
sitting  posture  in  front  of  the  fire. 

§  2 

Upton  entered,  smiling. 

"Well,  my  angel" — he  went  up  to  her  with  an  air  of  proprietary 
affection  and  patted  her  on  the  head — "and  what's  the  little  one 
been  doing  this  dull  afternoon — eh?" 

He  bent  down  as  though  to  kiss  her. 

"No,  Harry.  Don't  be  foolish,  please!  Go  and  sit  down 
quietly,  like  a  sensible  person." 

"All  right,  Rosebud,"  he  said,  taking  the  arm-chair  beside  her. 
"I've  come  for  a  serious  talk  with  you,  anyway.  .  .  .  She's  a  spoilt 
little  angel,  though,  isn't  she?" 


CONVERGING  COURSES  451 

Rosemary  compressed  her  lips  ominously.  This  was  the  kind 
of  raillery  that  had  always  grated  upon  her. 

"Who  is?"  she  inquired. 

'The  little  Rosebud,  of  course.    Who  else?" 

"Oh!  .  .  .  And  where  do  you  appear  from  this  afternoon?" 

"Why — I'm  just  back  from  Paris,  of  course.  I  told  you  I  was 
going  on  Sunday." 

There  was  a  shade  of  irritation — of  wounded  egotism — in  his 
voice. 

"Oh,  yes!    So  you  did.    I  forgot." 

He  was  not  taken  aback  by  this  tepid  reception,  because  he 
had  become  increasingly  accustomed  to  these  moods  during  the 
last  few  months.  He  put  them  down  to  the  "Meynell  tempera- 
ment"; she  generally  "came  round"  in  the  long  run. 

"They're  tremendously  elated  in  Paris  over  the  advance,"  he 
continued.  "Waving  of  flags  and  cheers  for  the  Allies  on  every 
possible  occasion.  They  talk  of  an  armistice  within  a  fortnight. 
Wilson  is  believed  to  have  drawn  up  the  terms  of  one  already — 
or,  failing  that,  a  capitulation  t>y  the  end  of  the  month  and  a 
dictated  peace  in  Berlin.  So  we  shall  soon  be  having  Victory 
Balls,  *and  what-not.  ...  By  the  way,  you're  coming  to  Gina's 
roulette  evening  to-night,  aren't  you?  I'll  call  for  you " 

"No,  I'm  not.    I'm  busy." 

"Busy?  What's  my  Diana  got  to  do  to  keep  her  at  home? 
Duty  to  mother,  or — letters  to  write?" 

"Mamma's  out  to-night.    Yes — letters  to  write." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Rosebud !  Cut  it  out !  I  insist  on  your  coming. 
It's  going  to  be  fun.  'Little  horses'  and  my  loot  from  Paris — 
the  divinest  violette  liqueur,  my  child,  and  some  new  cigarettes 
you're  sure  to  like  and — various  condiments  and  experiments  which 
you'll  appreciate.  It'll  go  on  till  any  old  hour.  Just  the  sort 
of  party  intime  you  do  like.  Oh!  but  of  course  you  must  come!" 

"I  think  not — thanks." 

Upton  studied  his  finger-nails,  smiling  confidentially  to  himself. 

"You  two— had  a  little  tiff,  eh?" 

"What  two?" 


452  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"Why,  you  and  Gina." 

"A  quarrel,  do  you  mean?  No,  I  haven't  seen  her  for  over 
a  week.'* 

He*  evidently  did  not  believe  her;  he  continued  to  smile  to 
himself  in  a  self-satisfied  manner.  "H'm — troublesome  this  after- 
noon," he  reflected.  "Better  be  careful." 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  change  your  mind,  Rosebud.  You  must 
come  to  Venetia's  birthday  supper,  and  afterwards  a  little  dance 
at  the  Savoy  on  Wednesday  night,  though.  She's  got  a  private 
room,  and  Bertramo  to  play.  The  French  Modernists ' 

"I  shall  be  up  at  Stavordale." 

He  stared  at  her. 

"Up  at  Stavordale?  What's  this?"  He  whistled.  "Change 
of  plans?  .  .  .  Ma  getting  restless?" 

"No.  We  just  decided  we  should  like  to  open  it  again — that's 
all." 

She  spoke  with  chilling  composure,  though  her  heart  throbbed 
painfully. 

"Is  it  worth  while,  though,  dear — just  for  a  week  or  two?" 

"It  isn't  just  for  a  week  or  two.  I  propose  to  get  the  horses 
up  and  hunt  all  through  the  winter." 

"Rosebud!" 

There  was  real  concern  in  his  voice  now.  There  was  even 
alarm. 

"Yes — what's  the  matter?"  She  looked  at  him,  raising  her 
eyebrows. 

"Why  have  you  suddenly  sprung  this  upon  me,  Rosemary? 
What  new  game's  this  you're  playing?" 

"Sprung  upon  you?  Game?  I — I  don't  quite  understand. 
Mamma  and  I  were  discussing  what  we  would  do  this  winter — 
we  decided  on  that." 

Upton  rose  and  leant  against  the  mantelpiece,  looking  down 
at  her. 

"And  what  about  me?"  he  said  in  a  challenging  tone. 

"You?  I  dunno  ...  I  suppose  you'll  have  to  be  at  your  Office 
a  good  deal,  won't  you?" 


CONVERGING  COURSES  453 

Upton  took  an  aimless  turn  across  the  room  and  back  again. 
Then  he  stopped  in  front  of  her.  There  was  an  unpleasant  glint 
in  the  large,  "interesting"  eyes. 

"We  must  come  to  an  understanding  over  this,  Rosemary." 

"An  understanding?  Why?  We're  going  up  to  Stavordale. 
I  can't  imagine  anything  more  simple." 

Her  bland  innocence  seemed  to  him  impenetrable. 

"You  know  why,  Rosemary.  You  know  perfectly  well  what 
I  mean.  What  is  this  game  you're  playing?  I'm  getting  a  bit 
sick  of  this — these  tempers  and — and  prevarications.  Are  you 
trying  to  make  a  fool  of  me  or — or  what?" 

"Not  in  the  least.    Why  should  I?" 

The  answer  was  obviously  and  literally  true.    It  stung  him. 

"Look  here!  What  do  you  think  I've  come  to  see  you  for  this 
afternoon  ?" 

"Haven't  the  least  idea.  To  pass  the  time  of  day — or  to  make 
love  to  me,  perhaps?  You  certainly  won't  do  that." 

"Oh!  so  that's  the  game,  is  it!  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you  know 
perfectly  well  what  I've  come  for,  and  you  know  perfectly  well 
what  I'm  driving  at.  You're  one  of  these  'nappy*  women,  are 
you?  *I  might  have  known  it — after  Adrian  Knoyle."  He  drawled 
out  the  name  with  an  emphatic  sneer. 

"If  you  want  to  mention  people's  names,  don't  talk  so  loud, 
please.  The  servants  are  in  the  next  room." 

"So  that's  where  I  stand,  is  it?  Not  even  consulted  when  you 
decide  to  go  away  for  months  at  a  time!  I  don't  mind  telling 
you,  your  moods  and  tempers  have  become  absolutely  impossible 
these  last  weeks." 

She  did  not  reply,  but  picked  up  the  newspaper  at  her  feet  and 
glanced  at  it. 

When  Upton  spoke  again  his  tone  had  changed.  He  was  no 
fool.  And  having  regained  control  of  his  temper,  he  perceived 
that  no  purpose  was  to  be  served  by  trying  to  domineer  over  a 
young  woman  of  the  stamp  of  Rosemary  Meynell — that  such  a 
course  would  merely  harden  any  resolution  she  had  formed  against 
him.  He  sat  down  again,  and  his  manner  became  conciliatory. 


454  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"Well — it's  no  use  quarrelling.  We  know  each  other  too  well. 
All  I  want  is  your  happiness,  as  you  know.  You  must  admit 
you've  sprung  this  Stavordale  project  on  me  pretty  suddenly, 
though.  How  am  I  to  get  on  without  you?  How  am  I  to  get 
at  you  up  there — and  what  can  one  do  up  there,  anyway?  I  hate 
plans  on  principle.  But  the  time's  come,  dear  girl,  when  we  must 
fix  up  something  definite — well — in  fact — a  date.  Be  business- 
like now — for  once!  .  .  .  When's  it  to  be?" 

She  turned  upon  him  a  look  of  cold  dislike. 

"When's  what  to  be?'* 

"Our  wedding." 

"Never" 

Saying  the  word,  she  looked  him  full  in  the  face  with  an  expres- 
sion of  emphatic  hostility;  then  looked  away  again. 

Upton  winced.  He  smiled  thinly  and  stretched  out  a  hand  as 
though  to  take  hers  which  hung  by  her  side.  She  immediately 
removed  it. 

"Dear  girl,"  he  purred,  "Think!  You  cannot — cannot  mean 
that.  Think — think  what  you're  saying." 

His  complete  ineffectiveness  in  face  of  the  fait  accompli  irritated 
her  more  than  anything  he  had  yet  said. 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  she  replied.  "And  for  the  love  of  Heaven 
don't  call  me  'dear  girl'!  It's  an  expression  I  detest." 

Upton's  normally  pallid  complexion  assumed  a  livid  tint.  The 
unpleasant  look  came  back  into  his  eyes. 

"You  mean  .  .  .  you  wish  to  break  off  our  engagement?" 

"Yes." 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"Certainly.  It  never  was  an  engagement.  You  persuaded  me 
against  my  will.  I  didn't  understand — then.  You  only  wanted 
to  marry  me  because  you  thought  it  would  give  you  a  leg-up 
socially.  I've  no  other  reason  to  give  except  that  I  never  wanted 
to  marry  you,  and  don't  intend  to." 

She  rose  and  stood  before  the  fireplace  as  though  to  intimate 
that  she  considered  the  interview  at  an  end. 

Upton  rose  too. 


CONVERGING  COURSES  455 

"Oh!  ah — indeed!  This  is  interesting — very.  The  worst  of 
it  is,  it'll  prevent  my  being  of  any  practical  assistance  to  the — er — 
unfortunate  house  of  Meynell." 

She  took  no  notice. 

"I  not  only  want  to  break  off  what  you're  pleased  to  call  our 
'engagement,'  "  she  said,  "I  want  to  break  off  every  connection 
with  you  and  all  of  you.  I  simply  want  to  get  away  from  you 
all.  That's  my  only  wish." 

Upton,  coldly  furious,  leant  against  the  mantelpiece,  with  one 
foot  on  the  fender. 

"This  is  very  sudden,"  he  sneered.  "Don't  you — rather  forget 
one  or  two  things?" 

She  made  no  answer,  but  stood  looking  straight  before  her, 
fingering  her  pearls. 

"Eh?  What  about  that?"  he  continued.  "We  may  be — a  bit 
Bohemian — we  don't  pretend  to  be  anything  else.  But  our  way 
of  life  has  its  amusements,  its  enjoyable  moments.  They  seem 
to  get  rather  a  grip  on  some  people.  .  .  .  Have  a  cigarette — 'one 
of  the  nice  ones/  as  a  certain  little  girl  once  used  to  say!" 

Rosemary  Meynell  went  across  to  the  bureau,  unlocked  the 
small-  drawer  as  before,  and  took  from  it  the  Louis  Quatorze 
snuff-box.  This  she  handed  to  Upton. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  with  a  disagreeable  smile;  "but  these 
little  things  aren't  given  up  quite  so  easily  as  all  that,  you  know. 
However,  if  you  want  any  more  .  .  .  pleased  to  oblige  at  any 
time!" 

Silence  followed,  during  which  the  girl  gazed  steadily  in  front 
of  her  with  an  expression  of  fine  contempt.  The  meanness  of  the 
man's  soul  had  never  revealed  itself  as  now! 

Upton  began  to  hum  the  words  of  a  popular  revue  air,  tapping 
in  time  to  it  with  his  foot. 

"If  you  were  the  only  girl  in  the  world 
And  I  ..." 

"Well,  the  rest  doesn't  matter,"  he  broke  off.  "You're  not, 
you  see," 


456  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

He  watched  her  closely  to  note  the  effect  of  his  words,  the 
vindictive  smile  still  on  his  face.  So  far  as  any  change  in  her 
expression  went,  he  might  not  have  been  in  the  room. 

"Eh,  bien!  So  you've  made  up  your  mind,  then,  Rosebud? 
YouVe  decided  not  to  throw  in  your  lot  with  your  lovesick  Harry  ? 
So  be  it — I  must  be  off  to  dress  for  Gina's  party.  We  shall  miss 
our  Rosebud.  We  shall  meet  again,  though — often.  Don't  forget 
your — your  ever  obliging  friend  and  instructor.  He  won't  forget 
you." 

His  expression,  as  he  turned  towards  the  door,  was  one  of  con- 
centrated malice. 

"Good-bye,  little  Rosebud !"  he  called  as  he  went  out. 

She  made  no  answer. 

When  he  had  half-closed  the  door,  he  came  back. 

"A  keepsake,"  he  laughed.     "Catch!" 

He  tossed  across  the  Louis  Quatorze  snuff-box.  It  fell  on  the 
rug  at  her  feet. 

The  door  slammed. 

§  3 

The  girl  sank  down  on  a  cushion  by  the  fender-stool. 

She  stared  into  the  fire  for  a  long  time.    Then: 

"What  a  brute!"  she  murmured.  "What  a  brute!  How  I 
could  ever  have !" 

A  sob  shook  her. 

"How  idiotic,  how  abominable  I've  been!  ...  If  I'd  only 
listened!  If  I'd  only  stuck  to  old  Faith!  If  I  only  wasn't  such 
a  fool — such  a  fool — such  a  crashing  fool!" 

Her  friend  was  the  soft  pearl-grey  London  light  which,  stealing 
into  the  room,  kindled  the  gold  in  her  hair. 

"But  he  will  be  the  same — he  will  be  the  same,"  she  moaned. 
"At  Stavordale  I  shall  get  well.  I  will  fight  myself.  I  shall 
be  away  from  everything  and  everybody.  And  in  the  spring  I 
shall  come  back  .  .  .  clean  and  happy.  Then  we  will  meet.  Yes! 
Faith  will  bring  us  together.  And  I  will  go  to  him  in  sackcloth 


CONVERGING  COURSES  457 

and  ashes  like  the  woman  in  the  Bible,  and  he  will  take  me  back 
to  him!" 

Her  sobbing  grew  less. 

"And  then — in  the  spring  ...  we  will  start  afresh." 


CHAPTER  II 
Reunion 

§  i 

EARLY  in  the  month  of  November  of  that  year,  nineteen-hundred- 
and-eighteen,  the  principal  thoroughfares  of  London  responded  once 
again  to  the  roar  of  frantically-cheering  crowds.  At  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  morning  on  the  eleventh  day  of  the  month  an  Armistice 
was  signed  between  the  contending  nations.  And  with  a  single 
impulse  all  London  abandoned  itself  to  an  orgy  of  emotion. 

When  night  fell  the  winged  archer  in  the  heart  of  Piccadilly 
Circus  smiled  his  faint  elusive  smile  upon  crowds  that  sang  and 
shouted  and  waved  hats  and  went  mad  around  his  base.  Revela- 
tion of  Light  had  come  to  a  multitude  which  had  passed  through 
the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death!  Men  embraced;  soldiers 
were  hoisted  on  people's  shoulders;  the  street-crowds  pressed  into 
the  service  of  their  enthusiasm  all  who  passed,  irrespective  of  age 
or  class  or  sex.  London  was  once  more  lit  up.  Never  had  the 
powerful  arc-lamps  shed  their  glare  upon  a  wilder  gaiety.  And 
wherever  the  crowds  opened  out  or  did  not  surge  too  thick  and 
close,  couples  danced  like  costermongers  on  a  Bank  Holiday;  and 
wherever  a  passage  was  cleared  through  the  press  gambolled  proces- 
sions of  young  men  and  maidens  waving  flags,  singing,  laughing, 
and  shouting  hysterically.  The  traffic  stopped.  Such  scenes,  people 
recalled,  had  not  been  known  since  the  night  of  August  the  Fourth, 
nineteen-hundred-and-fourteen. 

And  night  after  night  these  revels  went  on,  the  lighting  of  the 
lamps  being  the  signal  for  Carnival  to  start  afresh. 

So  came  the  night  of  the  Grand  Victory  Ball. 

The  preceding  act  to  this  memorable  event  was  a  succession 

458 


REUNION  459 

of  banquets  and  dinner-parties  given  in  various  restaurants  and 
important  houses  of  the  capital.  And  it  happened  that  a  little 
after  eight  o'clock  a  young  man  made  his  way  through  the  crowds 
towards  the  soaring  white  mass  of  the  Hotel  Astoria.  After 
four-and-a-half  years — every  comparison  came  back  to  that — the 
building  was  once  more  a  blaze  of  light.  Once  again  a  long  line 
of  motor-cars  disclosed  successive  pairs  of  lamps  stretching  down 
Piccadilly  towards  Hyde  Park  Corner.  Each  as  it  drove  up  dis- 
charged its  four,  five,  or  six  occupants  into  a  lane  of  spectators, 
and,  amid  the  exhortations  of  enormous  uniformed  porters  and 
policemen,  passed  on. 

The  young  man  entered  by  the  circular  moving  doorway,  and 
handed  over  his  military  cap  and  greatcoat  to  a  lacquey,  with 
whom  he  seemed  to  renew  quite  cordially  a  hat-and-stick  acquaint- 
ance. He  wore  a  dark  blue  uniform  with  gold  buttons  and  a 
scarlet  stripe  down  the  trousers,  Army  regulations  not  permitting 
to  officers  the  wearing  of  fancy  dress. 

Adrian  Knoyle  was  pale,  and  stooped  somewhat.  A  strip  of 
plaster  across  his  forehead  indicated  the  nature  of  his  recent  injury. 

Mme.  Rodriguez  seemed  to  have  invited  half  London  to  her 
dinner-party.  Such  was  her  custom;  she  could  not  afford  to  do 
things  by  halves.  Of  a  number  of  dinner-parties  foregathering, 
hers  was  the  largest.  Perhaps  the  most  striking  preliminary  im- 
pression of  the  scene  in  general  was  the  number  of  British  and 
foreign  officers  present  in  uniforms  of  varied  colours  and  aspects. 
All  the  rest  were  in  fancy  dress,  the  company  including  many  of 
those  the  most  distinguished  in  Society,  in  the  Army  and  Navy, 
in  politics,  diplomacy,  and  affairs,  in  sport,  art,  and  in  the  drama 
and  literature  of  their  day. 

The  picture  indeed  was  positively  dazzling  to  a  newcomer — 
so  full  of  colour,  of  animation,  of  refined  light,  of  reflection  and 
scintillation,  of  gleaming  jewels,  of  flowers  banked  up  and  bursting 
through  moss  in  golden  baskets,  of  high  and  stately  palms,  orange- 
trees,  tall  marble  pillars  draped  with  the  flags  of  the  Allies — and 
then  a  vista  of  long  corridors,  mirrored  and  multiplied,  opening 
upon  the  soft,  warm  glow  of  the  restaurant. 


460  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

Adrian  Knoyle  hesitated  to  join  the  imposing  throng.  The 
jewels  and  variegated  garments  of  the  women  dazed  him;  their 
mystery  and  formality  dazed  him.  The  scent  of  the  flowers  dazed 
him,  the  lights  shimmering  and  reflected,  the  hum  and  buzz  of 
conversation,  the  sudden  poignant  speaking  beauty  of  the  thing. 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  a  feeling  of  faintness  came 
over  him — now  come,  now  gone — and  he  was  for  retreating 
through  glass  doors.  At  this  moment  he  heard  his  name  called, 
hands  seized  him  by  each  arm,  and  he  looked  round  to  find — 
Fotheringay  and  Sutton! 

Two  small,  natty  figures  in  a  uniform  like  his  own,  two  laugh- 
ing, pink-and-white  faces. 

"Well,  Adrian,  old  boy,  so  you've  turned  up!  Enterprising 
fellow !  The  whole  world's  here.  Come  and  sit  down — come  and 
see  everybody!" 

His  polite  duty  supervened.  Mme.  Rodriguez,  handsome  and 
hung  and  strung  with  pearls,  wearing  a  great  broad-brimmed  hat 
as  though  she  had  sprung  from  a  Rubens  picture,  stood  upon  the 
top  step  of  the  dai's  flanked  by  her  daughter. 

His  name  was  announced. 

"How  do  you  do?" 

"How  do  you  do?" 

He  shook  fingers  with  the  mother,  then  with  the  daughter,  the 
latter  adding  a  timid  and  amiable  smile.  Neither  had  much  idea 
who  he  was.  It  was  as  though  he  had  awakened  in  the  summer 
of  1914.  Mme.  Rodriguez  glanced  at  a  list. 

"Will  you  take  Miss  Lettice  Kenelm  in  to  dinner,  please?" 

He  bowed.  Inferentially  he  bowed  to  Miss  Lettice  Kenelm, 
whose  name  came  to  him  as  from  another  world.  Once  again 
he  felt  sorry  for  Miss  (or  was  it  Mile.? — he  could  not  remember) 
Rodriguez,  who  was  so  "eligible."  There  she  stood,  a  Seville 
dancing-girl — it  was  almost  indecent.  Four-and-a-half  years — the 
best  of  intentions — and  nothing  come  of  it.  Did  not  her  mamma 
assure  people — as  one  who  nourishes  a  grudge  against  Fate — that 
she  had  had  everything  money  could  provide  ?  .  .  .  No  wonder  the 
girl  looked  ashamed. 


REUNION  461 

He  thereupon  fell  into  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Rivington  (of  Riving- 
ton),  who  stood  nearby,  a  Miss  Kenelm  on  either  side.  Yes — 
she  almost  embraced  him.  Each  of  the  nieces  smiled,  holding  out 
a  moist  hand.  Each  looked  sweet  as  nothing  in  particular.  Mrs. 
Rivington  was  a  Queen — of  sorts. 

"Like  the  old  days,  Adrian,  my  dear,"  she  crooned  over  him 
in  a  kind  of  sing-song  (but  she  had  never  called  him  by  his  Christian 
name  in  those  days) ;  "quite  like  the  old  days.  Only  so  many 
dear  faces  gone.  And  everybody  so  hard  up.  You  remember 
Hilda  and  Lettice?  And  I  hope  you're  better,  you  poor  soldier." 
She  lowered  her  voice.  "I'm  running  this  entirely  for  her."  She 
nodded  at  the  Lady  from  Rubens,  who  was  still  busy  shaking 
hands.  "I've  asked  every  mortal  soul.  And  everybody's  coming. 
I  guarantee  the  champagne;  it's  pre-war.  So  go  and  enjoy  your- 
self and — by  the  way — bring  up  any  nice  young  men  you  know 
and  introduce  them  to  the  girls." 

He  next  ran  into  his  friend,  Mrs.  Clinton.  She  was  in  a  grand 
evening  gown  that  looked  like  an  advertisement  of  Queen  Victoria. 
"Reconstruction,"  she  called  it. 

"And,"  she  added,  "that's  only  too  true!" 

Adrian  laughed. 

"You're  not  looking  well,"  Mrs.  Clinton  announced;  "you're 
not  taking  enough  care  of  the  old  head.  Your  mother — where  is 
she  now?" 

"She's  rather  an  invalid,  I'm  afraid.  At  the  present  moment 
she's  down  at  Stane,  getting  it  ready  to  inhabit.  The  let's  up, 
and  we're  going  to  spend  the  summer  there." 

Then  Fotheringay  and  Sutton,  who  had  been  hovering  near, 
pounced  upon  him  again  and  carried  him  oflf  to  a  corner  where 
Cyril  Orde  sat  between  sticks. 

"Congratulate  him,"  they  whispered,  "he's  been  and  gone  and 
got  married.  Awful,  wasn't  it,  about  poor  old  Burns — and 
Arthur,  tool" 

All  this  was  said  in  one  breath,  Adrian  being  given  no  time  to 
reply. 


462  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

Orde's  tired  smile  greeted  him.  He  was  in  uniform  and  a 
wheeled-chair. 

"It's  very  nice  to  see  you  back!"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 
"How's  the  head?  A  bullet  across  the  forehead,  was  it? — h'm! 
sounds  nasty.  Surely  a  bit  premature  this,  though?  .  .  .  Mar- 
ried? Yes,  I'm  married,  old  boy.  I  think  you  know  my  wife?" 

Miss  Ingleby  that  was  stepped  forward,  smiling.  Adrian  had 
not  noticed  her.  (One  never  did  unless  one  looked  twice.)  Her 
fancy  dress  was  the  uniform  of  a  Red  Cross  nurse.  He  murmured 
appropriately. 

"Yes — Cyril  and  I  were  married  on  Armistice  Day,"  she  piped, 
like  a  robin  on  a  frosty  morning.  "We're  so  happy  looking  round 
for  a  house  in  the  country." 

So  little  Miss  Ingleby  had  found  her  vocation  after  all! 

"Heard  anythin'  of  Faith?"  Orde  inquired.  "I  had  a  line  from 
Mary  Arden  the  other  day  sayin*  she  was  about.  I  hoped  she'd 
come  and  see  me." 

"She's  gone  back  to  Neuilly  to  nurse,  and  probably  won't  be 
home  till  the  spring.  You're  coming  on  to  the  ball,  aren't  you, 
Cyril?" 

"If  I  can  get  there,  old  boy,  if  I  can  get  there.  I  like  lookin' 
on  at  the  passin'  show,  y'know — wonderin'  whether  there's  been 
a  war  or  whether  it's  all  a  rumour !" 

At  this  point  Lady  Freeman  rushed  up. 

"How  d'e  do,  Sir  Adrian?  Pleased  to  see  you  back.  I  heard 
you'd  been  so  badly  wounded.  Oh !  it's  the  head.  What  a  shame ! 
Nothing  permanent,  I  hope.  The  last  time  we  saw  you  was  at 
Ash-hanger,  I  think?" 

"Yes— in  1915." 

In  the  confronting  mirror  Adrian  caught  Cyril  Orde's  eye. 

"Seen  anything  of  Rosemary  Meynell?  I  hear  she's  quite  one 
of  Miss  Maryon's  friends  now."  There  was  a  hint  of  malice  in 
this,  he  thought.  Nor  did  she  wait  for  an  answer  to  her  question. 
"Now  tell  me,  Sir  Adrian — what  am  I?" 

It  was  a  crisis  of  his  life. 

"Ah — er!"  was  all  he  could  say. 


REUNION  463 

"My  costume,  I  mean?" 

Her  garments  presented  a  series  of  zig-zags  and  geometrical 
diagrams  in  black-and-white  surmounted  by  a  sort  of  flame-coloured 
toque.  It  was  appalling.  And  what  could  it  be? 

"Charming!    Most  becoming!    But  what  is  it?" 

"  'To-morrow/  Doris,  whom  you  see  over  there," — he  espied 
Mrs.  Granville-Brown — "is  'Victory.'  I'm  so  glad  you  like  me. 
Some  people  think  it  a  little  too — Futuristic,  y'know." 

"Pessimistic,  perhaps.  It  looks  as  though  you  expected  an  early 
renewal  of  hostilities!" 

It  was  such  a  bad  joke  that  they  both  laughed. 

"Oh,  no!  you  nasty  man,  how  could  you !  But  have  you 

seen  Lord  Freeman?" 

"Lord  Free ?"  He  was  given  away. 

"Oh  yes!  Didn't  you  know?  Last  New  Year.  .  .  .  But  I'm 
sure  he'd  like  to  shake  hands  with  you.  You  were  always  quite 
a  favourite  with  him.  Ah!  and  here  he  comes!" 

She  was  "all  there";  she  was  chatty.  Something  deep  down 
inside  him  murdered  her,  but  he  only  saw  the  great  man,  advancing 
like  an  expensive  doctor,  attired  (after  the  manner  of  the  younger 
Pitt)  in  a  mulberry-coloured  frock-coat  and  white  knee-breeches. 
Conjointly,  the  Freemans  personified — Success.  The  War,  they 
assured  you,  had  been  a  success.  Had  it  not  provided  Sir  Walter 
Freeman  with  opportunities?  Lord  Freeman  had  accepted  those 
opportunities.  Great  men  always  do. 

"Well,  well,  young  man,  pleased  to  see  you.  Glad  to  see  you! 
Still  quartered  in  London — still  leading  the  gay  life!  It  has  its 
attractions  even  for  a  worn-out,  worked-out  old  machine — ha !  ha ! 
(Been  at  the  front,  has  he?  Well!  well!  poor  chaps,  they've  all 
been  there.)  It's  going  to  be  a  most  enjoyable  night,  I  think. 
We  haven't  seen  such  gaieties  since — I'm  afraid  to  say  when.  So 
much  the  better.  'All's  well  that  ends  well,'  as  they  say.  Ha! 
ha!" 

The  couple  passed  on  in  a  blaze  of  prosperity  and  self-satisfac- 
tion. 

Lady  Cranford  now  arrived  in  poudre  and  crimson  satin — some 


464  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

suggested  Madame  de  Maintenon,  others  Catherine  of  Russia — 
attended  by  Mr.  Ralph  Heathcote  attired  as  the  illustrious  Lord 
Chesterfield.  The  high  lady  greeted  Adrian  with  a  bow ;  it  was  a 
bowing  evening.  On  these  occasions  (someone  remarked)  she  put 
the  world  in  its  place. 

Mr.  Heathcote,  for  his  part,  became  so  engaged  in  bowing  and 
shaking  hands  as  to  be  ineptly  mislaid. 

"Ah!  Adrian  Knoyle!"  he  exclaimed,  en  passant.  "Hardly 
recognised  you  at  first.  Heard  you  were  so  badly  wounded.  Leg, 
was  it  ?  Ah !  head — yes.  But  quite  right  again  ?  Capital !  That's 
the  thing." 

The  young  man  had  said  no  word.  It  was  evidently  a  ritual, 
suitable  to  each  and  every  such  occasion — and  punctually  produced. 

The  elderly  gentleman  darted  off  at  a  tangent. 

"Ah!  the  Duchess.  Dear  me!  Quite  lost,  beautifully  dressed, 
and  nowhere  to  sit.  I  must  really  go  over  and  say  how-de-do." 
And  struggling  slightly  with  his  Court-sword  but  recovering  him- 
self (as  a  gentleman  should),  Mr.  Heathcote  trotted  across  to  a 
bewigged,  becalmed,  bedizened  figure. 

There  was  one  thing  to  be  said  about  Mr.  Heathcote — he  was 
the  same.  Men  had  come  and  men  had  gone ;  Mr.  Heathcote  went 
on  for  ever.  .  .  .  The  war  had  strolled  by  him  in  Piccadilly. 

§    2 

The  Rodriguez  dinner-party,  unwieldy  though  it  appeared  to  be, 
was  now  all  but  complete.  Yet,  "We're  still  somebody  short," 
Madame  R.  was  heard  to  remark.  And  she  glanced  anxiously 
towards  the  revolving  doorway  with  that  politely  abstracted  ex- 
pression so  characteristic  of  worried  hostesses.  As  for  the  daughter, 
she  looked  as  though  the  guilt  ought  to  be  traced  to  her. 

Meanwhile  people  were  not  a  little  intrigued  by  the  gradual 
assemblage  of  another  dinner-party  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
palm-court,  this  being  the  "Clan  Maryon"  in  full  force.  One 
advantage  of  the  Hotel  Astoria,  it  may  have  been  noticed,  is  that 
you  can  watch  other  people's  movements  and  comportment  in  its 


REUNION  465 

innumerable  mirrors  without  rudely  or  crudely  appearing  so  to  do 
— though  this  advantage  may  be  said  to  cut  both  ways.  Each  of 
the  members  of  this  noted  or  notorious  circle,  as  he  or  she  arrived, 
passed  through  a  running  fire  of  (mainly  hostile)  comment — 
which  was  indeed  no  more  or  less  than  notoriety  required.  There 
was,  for  instance,  a  murmur  of  disapproval  when  Mrs.  Gerard 
Romane  arrived,  on  the  arm  (so  to  say)  of  her  cavalier — the 
young  soldier-politician.  Sylphlike  and  gliding,  she  represented 
"The  Arts  of  Peace"  in  trousers  and  a  naked  back. 

The  genie  herself  was  naturally  the  centre  of  the  Maryon 
gathering.  It  was  her  party.  She  was  Columbine,  and  Colum- 
bine's skirt  barely  approaches  her  knees.  Beside  her,  and  assisting 
to  receive  the  guests,  stood  Harold  Upton;  he  represented  (some 
said)  a  rather  Mephistophelial  Harlequin.  .  .  .  And  the  news  had 
already  spread.  It  only  had  to  pass  from  one  side  of  the  foyer  to 
the  other,  and  such  items  of  intelligence  have  been  known  to  cross 
mountain-ranges  and  even  continents  in  an  incredibly  short  space 
of  time.  The  fact  was,  Miss  Maryon  had  "done  it" — at  last. 
The  fifty-first  proposal  had  been  accepted.  Gina  was  no  longer 
Maryon— she  was  Upton.  The  event  had  taken  place  at  a  Regis- 
try Office  that  very  morning. 

Everybody  was  talking  about  it.  Some  had  seen  a  paragraph 
in  the  evening  papers.  Some  had  heard  it  in  a  club.  In  a  Regis- 
try Office  ?  Really !  .  .  .  But  where  else  would  you  expect  ? 

Adrian  had  already  remarked  the  proximity  of  Gina  to  Upton 
with  feelings  of  perplexity;  it  was  not  what  he  had  been  led  to 
expect.  Once  in  the  distance  he  had  caught  the  young  woman's 
eye,  had  thought  he  detected  in  it  a  subtle  mockery.  Upton 
avoided  his  gaze.  Over  and  over  again  he  heard  Gina's  high- 
pitched  laugh.  .  .  . 

§3 

Mrs.  Clinton,  on  a  sofa  beside  Lady  Cranford,  was  talking  in 
low  tones. 

"I  thought  your  girl  was  engaged  to  that  young  man,  Helena?" 


466  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"Which  young  man?"  her  ladyship  replied;  "there's  been  more 
than  one,  you  know." 

"This  young  Upton  who's  married  the  Maryon  girl.  It  seems  to 
have  been  a  very  odd  business  altogether." 

"Oh!  don't  ask  me,  my  dear.  A  gal's  mother  is  the  last  person 
on  earth  to  ask  whom  her  daughter  is  engaged  to.  Goodness 
knows,  I've  tried  to  bring  her  up  to  decency  and  duty;  it's  not  my 
fault  that  she  prefers  a  dull  demi-monde.  It's  the  war  of  course 
...  these  children  have  gone  mad." 

"Don't  you  think  it's  just  a  'phase,'  Helena,  dearest?"  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Clinton  vaguely.  "But  where  is  Rosemary  to-night? 
Isn't  she  coming?" 

"Nothing  would  induce  her  to."  Lady  Cranford  became 
earnest.  "There's  something  wrong  with  the  gal.  She  worries5 
me.  Whether  it's  to  do  with  this  young  man — or  another— I  don't 
know.  Most  of  your  'gals  of  the  period'  don't  know  their  own 
minds.  Three  weeks  ago  she  suddenly  took  it  into  her  head  she 
wanted  to  go  to  Stavordale,  get  her  horses  up,  and  hunt  all  the' 
winter.  We  opened  the  house;  it  was  dreadfully  expensive.  She 
seemed  in  a  perpetual  state  of  nerves  the  whole  time.  I  left  her 
there  yesterday  in  floods  of  tears,  declaring  she  would  rather  die 
than  come  down  for  this  ball,  though  Caroline  Rivington  invited 
her  weeks  ago.  I  thought  it  would  do  her  good — take  her  out  of 
herself.  The  Meynells  are  so  morbid.  But  no!  Nothing  would 
induce  her  to."  4 

"I  shouldn't  worry,  my  dear.  As  I  say,  it's  a  sort  of  stage  they 
all  pass  through.  It  will  right  itself." 

"One  hopes  so,  but •" 

There  was  a  stir  among  those  near  the  entrance.  Lady  Cran- 
ford's  voice  suddenly  froze. 

"Blanche!  ...  oh!  good  gracious!" 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  aristocratic  lady's  self-possession 
deserted  her.  She  stood  up  with  an  expression  of  horror. 


REUNION  467 

§  4 

Rosemary  Meynell — alone — came  up  the  marble  steps. 

There  was  a  flagging  of  conversation  amounting  almost  to  com- 
plete silence,  broken  only  by  one  or  two  suppressed  exclamations  of 
surprise.  All  eyes  were  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  solitary 
advancing  figure.  The  girl,  however,  appeared  not  to  notice  the 
quizzing  and  curious  glances,  but  to  move  in  a  dream,  through  a 
world  exalted  above  the  present. 

At  the  head  of  the  steps  she  paused  and  hesitated — as  though  in 
doubt  whether  she  belonged  to  the  Rodriguez  gathering  nearest  her, 
or  to  the  smaller  Maryon  group  opposite.  She  turned  to  the  for- 
mer. 

Recalling  the  incident  afterwards,  people  professed  to  see  some- 
thing pathetic  and  indeed  poignantly  significant  in  this  unexpected 
apparition.  But  at  the  time  it  was  the  young  lady's  appearance  and 
unusual  garb  that  excited  comment,  forming  as  they  did  so  pro- 
nounced a  contrast  to  the  elaborate  gowns,  gleaming  jewels  and 
brilliant  uniforms  of  the  majority.  She  was  dressed  in  some  coarse 
brown  stuff,  such  as  monks  or  women  doing  penance,  are  seen 
wearing  in  pictures  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  garment  fell  in 
straight  folds,  writh  a  knotted  cord  round  the  waist.  Her  hair, 
golden  as  September  sunshine,  was  drawn  back  without  ornament, 
without  ribbon,  without  colour.  Everybody  hazarded  a  guess  as  to 
what  or  whom  she  designed  to  represent.  Yet  everybody  agreed 
that  hers  was  the  most  striking  and  effective  costume  there.  So 
simple,  so  plain — and  yet  so  original!  And  it  suited  her  to  per- 
fection. When  someone  suggested  "Martyred  Belgium"  the  idea 
was  at  once  taken  up.  Why,  of  course!  Really — very  artistic. 
But  surely  rather  extraordinary  Helena  Cranford  not  bringing  her 
daughter  with  her !  Then  people's  memories  got  to  work ;  had  she 
not  been  engaged  to  Upton,  Lord  Freeman's  political  private  sec- 
retary? Mightn't  the  sombre  dress  be  somehow  connected  with 
that  matter?  And  everybody  took  up  that  idea.  It  was  interest- 
ing; it  was  picturesque.  Months  afterwards  people  were  still 
canvassing  the  point:  had  Rosemary  Meynell's  severe  garb  of  that 


46S  fFAY  OF  REFELATION 

memorable  night  other  than  an  accidental  or  fanciful  significance? 

And  Lady  Cranford's  daughter  had  never  looked  more  beautiful. 
Yet  was  there  something  strange  about  her  too — the  eyes  set  in  an 
unusual  pallor,  the  brilliant  spot  of  colour  on  each  cheek.  Her 
figure,  height  and  erect  carriage,  however,  could  never  be  forgotten 
by  those  who  saw  her  then,  nor  the  fine  swan-like  poise  of  her  neck. 

Adrian  Knoyle,  strangely  moved,  watched  her  go  up  to  Mme. 
Rodriguez ;  knew  she  was  apologising  for  being  late ;  knew  she  said 
she  had  "only  got  down  from  Stavordale  that  evening."  Them 
die  went  across  to  Lady  Cranford,  who  stood  like  Nemesis.  .  .  . 

After  the  briefest  minute's  converse,  during  which  the  words 
"telegram"  and  "taken  leave  of  your  senses"  were  distinguishable 
to  some  who  stood  near,  she  turned  to  Fotheringay,  Sutton,  and  a 
group  of  young  peisous,  with  whom  she  exchanged  greetings.  Her 
spirits  were  evidently  high;  she  was  animated ;  the  quickened  colour 
bespoke  something  hectic.  Yet  all  the  while  she  wore  an  abstracted 
look,  glanrtng  this  way  and  that  and  appearing  oblivious  on  the 
whole  of  the  world  about  her,  as  though  searching  for  something — 


§  5 

It  was  then  their  eyes  met. 

They  met  across  the  dawJi'ng  centre  of  that  London  stage  upon 
which,  had  it  not  been  for  a  world's  upturning,  their  lives  (as 
countless  other  lives  before  theirs)  would  doubtless  have  played  out 
tb*  nonr.2j  conic-cy  cf  nisie-bciier. 

The  physical  alteration  in  her  vaguely  shocked  him.  Beautiful 
as  she  was,  Change  held  sway;  yet  could  not  be  defined.  Was  it 
the  look  in  the  eyes — the  pallor — the  dress? 

A  tmkling  "••fc"  broke  m  upon  that  second  s  intimacy.  Colum- 
bine s  violet  eyes  were  watching  diem,  and  in  the  opposite  mirror 
Adrian  saw  her  turn  to  Harlequin,  whisper,  a  smile  curling  the 
scarlet  of  her  lips  and  passing  to  his.  .  .  . 

Thenceforward  the  old  lovers  were  oblivious  of  all  but  each 
other.  Their  gaze  seldom  wandered  from  each  other.  The  long 


REL'yiOX  469 

dinner  passed  in  a  haze  of  illusion.  The  guests  sat  at  a  number  of 
tahl<*s,  each  loaded  with  Malmaison  camatioog  and  beribboned  with 
the  colours  of  the  Allies.  The  two  sat  at  different  tables,  but 
could  see  one  another  in  circumjacent  mirrors.  She  was  seated 
between  Fotberingay  and  Sutton ;  he  had  Miss  Lettke  Kmrlm  on 
one  side  and  \irs-  Clinton  on  the  other.  A  ceaseless  hum  of  con- 
versation went  on  beside  and  around  and  between  them,  but,  had 
they  been  questioned  on  the  instant,  neither  could  have  given  any 
account  of  it.  He  answered  questions  mechanically;  she  with 
levity.  Mrs.  Clinton  thought  him  odd,  abstracted,  and  most  dif- 
ficult to  talk  to;  Miss  Kenelm  gave  up  the  job.  Both  made  up 
their  minds  charitably  that  he  had  not  recovered  from  his  head- 
wound — perhaps  never  would.  Mr.  Heathcote  pcrpctuued  a  bland 
pun  about  the  Armistice  being  better  than  the  Army,  and  was  cor- 
respondingly piqued  at  receiving  no  response.  As  for  Fotheringay, 
Rosemary  Meynell  had  never  seemed  to  him  so  attractive,  sd 

ST.  27".  HI".  1 1  n  Z . 

3  ever  and  again  Columbine's  tinHfng  laugh  rose  high  above 
of  conversation    as  iltf:  mocking  treble  rJsgt.  anJ 


Somewhere  outside  a  violin  orchestra  murmured  softly.  Cham- 
pagne flowed  freely  and  Adrian  drank  freely;  Rosemary  too.  As 
the  evening  passed  the  warm  colour  rose  in  her  cheeks,  the  spark 
kindled  in  her  strange  eyes  until  she  became  again — or  seemed  to 
become — die  Rosemary  of  his  earliest  recollections  and  of  bis 
dreams.  And  if  her  gestures  grew  more  and  more  fcveicJb  and 
elated,  and  if  the  old  laugh  expelled  a  haunting  suggestion  from 
her  face,  her  glance  rarely  wandered  far  or  long,  but  came  back 
to  meet  his  across  the  chasm  of  years.  It  was  as  though  Tone  alone 
parted  them.  .  .  .  Yet  be  was  never  without  a  growing  sense  of 
something  impending,  snmrthing  which — in  tfie  natuie  of 
things — had  always  seemed  inevitable  to  them  both. 


CHAPTER  III 
The  Grand  Victory  Ball 


THE  whole  Rodriguez  party  now  rose  from  its  various  tables, 
the  ladies  passing  out  of  the  restaurant  first,  the  gentlemen  staying 
behind  to  finish  their  liqueurs  and  cigarettes.  Adrian's  glance  fol- 
lowed Rosemary,  who  passed,  talking  animatedly  to  a  woman  he 
did  not  know  ;  and  instead  of  the  frank  recognition  he  had  expected, 
she  lowered  her  eyes  with  an  evasive  look  that  might  have  implied 
self-consciousness  or  —  he  wondered.  When  the  men  in  their  turn 
left  the  restaurant,  Columbine's  laugh  was  the  last  sound  he 
heard.  .  .  . 

Then  they  were  gliding  down  Piccadilly  and  across  Hyde  Park 
Corner.  Open  Knightsbridge  lay  before  them,  its  lights  flitting 
by  like  mischievous,  twinkling  eyes.  He  was  restored  by  the  sharp 
air  and  rapid  motion  to  a  sense  of  physical  actuality  ;  yet  with  this 
his  apprehension  of  crisis  increased. 

There  was  no  doubt  now  —  and  he  realised  it  —  that  he  was  under 
the  spell  of  —  it  might  be  the  night,  it  might  be  this  strange  illusion 
of  a  pre-war  existence  which  he  had  thought  dead,  but  which  ap- 
peared to  be  externally  unchanged  —  certainly  of  this  wayward 
creature,  girl  or  woman,  who  had  so  unexpectedly  come  back  into 
his  life. 

Though  it  was  not  yet  eleven  o'clock,  the  numerous  entrances  to 
the  great  Hall  were  already  crowded;  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  the  party  found  its  way  along  stone  passages  to  the  Rodriguez 
box  which,  in  fact,  consisted  of  several  boxes  thrown  into  one  on 
the  ground  tier.  Astonishing  and  magnificent  was  the  scene  which 
confronted  them.  It  was  as  though  some  magic  window  opened 

470 


THE  GRAND  VICTORY  BALL  471 

in  material  earth,  ushering  from  the  hard  and  the  real  into  realms 
of  the  unreal,  the  mystical,  the  make-believe ;  as  though  some  glori- 
ous, glittering  cavern  exposed  its  secret  life  to  human  gaze;  as 
though  a  curtain  lifted  upon  some  grand,  portentous  drama  of  the 
legendary  past. 

So  the  spectacle  impressed  Adrian  Knoyle.  A  dazzling  rush 
of  colour  greeted  them — of  sound,  too,  for  now  the  music  of  mili- 
tary bands  resounded  through  the  hall.  Everywhere  displayed 
were  the  flags  and  banners  of  the  Allied  nations — billowing  across 
the  roof,  covering  all  spaces  around  the  walls,  between  and  beside 
the  boxes,  over  the  entrances  and  exits.  There  was  tier  upon  tier 
of  boxes,  festooned  and  draped  with  flags  and  masses  of  trailing 
flowers,  aglint  with  silver  and  glass  on  tables  supper-laid.  Above 
each  entrance  hung  a  golden  laurel-wreath  surrounding  an  illu- 
minated disc  bearing  the  name  of  one  of  the  Allies:  France,  Bel- 
gium, Serbia,  Italy,  Japan,  China,  Portugal,  Roumania,  the 
United  States,  Canada,  Australia,  South  Africa,  New  Zealand, 
India — these  being  the  rendezvous,  the  meeting-places  of  the 
dancers;  so  that  one  might  say  to  another:  "Meet  me  at  Italy,  or 
China,  or  India,"  or  "Let's  have  the  one  after  next  at  Serbia." 
The  general  background  of  the  boxes  was  red-and-gold,  but  all 
were  variegated  by  elaborate  adornment,  mirrored  reflections,  and 
by  the  dresses  of  those  within. 

In  one  quarter  of  the  hall,  that  beneath  the  great  organ  and 
immediately  opposite  the  box  in  which  Adrian  and  his  friends  sat, 
was  a  large  platform  banked  up  by  and  embowered  in  groves  of 
flowers.  Above  these,  a  mass  of  scarlet-and-gold  held  the  eye 
where  all  else  revolved  and  moved.  This  was  the  bands  of  the 
Guards,  whose  music  of  waltz  and  one-step  swam  up  to  the  roof. 
Far  up  in  the  topmost  galleries  crowds  of  contrasting  sober  hue 
gazed  mutely  down. 

A  vast  open  space  was  the  floor,  but  never  a  foot  to  spare  among 
the  dancers.  The  dancers!  All  costumes  of  all  periods  of  all 
countries.  Crusaders — Crusaders  in  mail  and  casque,  long  sword, 
shield  marked  with  the  red  cross,  dancing  with  old-fashioned 
English  country-girls  in  big  straw  hats,  tied  under  chin;  the* 


472  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

spotted  pierrot  clasping  the  Quakeress,  the  Arab  chief  gyrating 
with  the  lady  in  the  crinoline.  Here  were  Court  jesters  dancing 
with  Bacchantes,  Chinamen  waltzing  with  shepherdesses,  the  Comic 
Ass  with  the  Elephant  and  the  Kangaroo.  Prince  Charming  and 
Polichinelle  mingled  with  Indian  Princesses,  Pearl  Girls  with 
costermongers,  "Ninette"  with  "Rin-tin-tin,"  Punches  with  Judys 
absurdly  masked.  There  were  Spanish  Toreadors,  and  gorgeous 
outlandish  uniforms  and  pink  hunting  coats  and  gay  satiny  repro- 
ductions of  fashions  of  old  French  Courts  and  old  French  char- 
acters. Guillaume,  the  peasant,  was  there,  no  less  than  his  friend 
the  gamin,  the  student  from  the  Quartier  Latin  no  less  than 
Madame  la  Pompadour.  Among  all  these  came  and  went  foreign 
uniforms,  from  the  sky-blue  of  French  officers,  the  grey  of  Italy, 
and  the  mauve-blue  of  Roumania  to  American  khaki-yellow  and 
the  red-striped  dark  blue  of  British  officers. 

Since  leaving  the  Astoria,  Adrian  had  not  seen  Rosemary.  Now 
a  throng  of  people  filled  the  joined  boxes,  for  Mme.  Rodriguez 
had  invited  many  besides  those  who  had  been  present  at  the  dinner- 
party. And  although  Adrian's  eyes  sought  one  face  only  and  one 
figure,  and  although  his  mind  was  dominated  by  one  personality — 
these  were  not  to  be  found.  She  must  be  dancing!  He  made  his 
way  to  the  front  of  the  box,  and  searching  among  the  swirling 
colours  and  faces,  the  rainbow  dresses,  realised  that  the  quest  was 
hopeless. 

He  turned  to  Miss  Hilda  Kenelm  beside  him  who  was  becoming 
slowly  congealed  against  the  wall  by  a  stout  gentleman's  back.  He 
felt  something  ought  to  be  done. 

"I'm  not  allowed  to  dance,  but  shall  we  take  a  walk  round?" 

The  young  lady  flushed. 

"Thanks.     I  was  dancing  with  Lord  Fotheringay,  but " 

"He's  not  turned  up?"    Adrian  laughed.     "He  never  does." 

They  made  their  way  as  politely  as  might  be  towards  the  door 
where,  however,  the  crush  was  greatest. 

"It  seems — hopeless,"  the  young  man  said,  with  a  grimace. 
They  were  promptly  expelled  into  the  corridor. 


THE  GRAND  VICTORY  BALL  473 

"Ah!  There  he  is!"  cried  Miss  Kenelm,  who  had  been  adjured 
by  her  aunt  to  make  herself  especially  agreeable  to  young  Lord  F. 

The  latter  was  forcing  his  way  towards  them.  Then  Adrian 
saw  Rosemary.  .  .  . 

The  two  couples  came  face  to  face.    Fotheringay  laughed. 

"Look  here,  Adrian,"  he  protested,  "you've  got  my  partner! 
Let's  exchange !  Here's  Lady  Rosemary  dying  to  dance  with  you, 
and  you  haven't  had  the  decency  to  ask  her " 

The  exchange  was  automatically  effected  by  the  onward  pressure 
of  the  crowd. 

§3 

Neither  Adrian  nor  Rosemary  spoke  as  they  forced  their  way 
along  the  stone  corridor,  in  face  of  the  crowd — for  a  dance  was 
just  ended.  When  they  reached  the  gangway  leading  to  the 
dancing  floor  they  had  to  stand  against  the  wall.  There  was 
nowhere  to  sit. 

A  momentary  awkwardness  supervened.  Neither  quite  knew 
how  to  break  the  ice — of  two-and-a-half  years.  At  last  he  said  in 
a  constrained  voice: 

"I  like  your  dress,  Rosemary.    But — what  does  it  mean  ?° 

"Myself,  Adrian  ...  for  once." 

A  peculiar  smile  crossed  her  features,  and  more  consciously  than 
he  had  done  before,  he  noticed  the  changed  look  in  her  eyes,  the 
suppressed  ecstasy  of  her  expression.  He  felt  moreover,  with  a 
curious  certainty  that  he  had  seen  the  look  before — in  a  dream, 
perhaps,  or  was  it  on  some  other  face? 

Near  them  stood  a  very  tall  young  man  dressed  as  a  black-and- 
white  pierrot,  and  a  very  small  young  woman  dressed  as  a  red-and- 
white  pierette.  Adrian  noticed  that  under  the  folds  of  their  loose 
dresses  the  young  man's  hand  repeatedly  stole  out  and  pressed  the 
young  woman's.  Once  he  heard  the  latter  whisper: 

"Isn't  it  wonderful — a  dream — isn't  it  a  glorious,  wonderful 
night!" 

Then  the  bands  struck  up.    And  at  the  first  bars  the  tall  pierrot 


474  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

seized  his  little  friend  round  the  waist,  whirling  her  off  her  feet 
and  crying: 

"Come  on! — dance!  dance!"  And  with  a  loud  laugh,  "The 
war's  over — nothing  matters.  Isn't  it  all — humoreske  ...  ?" 

Without  a  word  Adrian  turned  to  his  partner. 

§3 

From  that  moment  all  but  themselves  was  blotted  out.  They 
were  caught  up  in  the  swirl  of  the  dancers.  They  were  lost  in 
self-created  mazes,  immersed  in  self-imposed  intricacies;  they  spun 
around  and  around  as  only  these  two  had  ever  done.  Was  he 
uncertain  a  little  in  the  first  two  or  three  turns — he  who  had 
been  cautioned  by  doctors  and  by  nurses  on  no  account  to  dance? 
He  trod  on  her  foot  once — they  laughed — and  in  the  reverse  swung 
her  wide  against  another  couple  so  that  they  nearly  lost  their 
balance.  It  was  the  moment  to  apologise,  to  stammer  something. 
He  did  neither.  Gradually  consciousness  of  her — fierce,  indefin- 
able, vibrant— came  to  him,  coursed  through  him  in  resurgent 
waves  of  intense  feeling.  He  felt  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  like 
a  caress.  Her  every  movement  followed  his  with  the  accuracy, 
with  the  felicity  of  old.  He  felt  her  breath  upon  his  cheek. 

Once  she  pressed  his  hand  ever  so  lightly ;  he  returned  the  pres- 
sure. With  that  they  fell  into  their  Time-appointed  places,  and 
were  at  one  with  each  other  across  and  despite  everything.  And 
were  lost  in  each  other. 

Faces  passed;  faces  they  knew  and  faces  they  did  not  know. 
Once  they  nearly  collided  with  Columbine  and  Harlequin,  who 
called  out.  And  Rosemary  uttered  the  low  laugh  that  he  remem- 
bered. And  looking  into  each  other's  eyes — they  understood. 

The  cadence  deepened.  The  electric  lights  dimmed.  All  around 
grew  dark,  grew  dark ;  only  a  greyish  white  beam  shot  down  from 
the  roof,  lighting  up  now  this  face,  now  that,  then  leaving  blank 
darkness.  And  in  that  whirl  of  ghosts  were  merged  the  living 
faces,  the  colours,  the  jewels,  the  laughing  light  of  dancing  eyes, 
the  pulsing  beat  of  youth  quivering  upon  longing  lips,  the  brilliant 


THE  GRAND  VICTORY  BALL  475 

masquerade  of  the  Harlequins,  the  Columbines,  and  the  marion- 
ettes, the  Crusaders,  the  spotted  pierrots,  the  Napoleonic  officers, 
the  fox-hunters,  the  Arab  women,  the  crinolines,  the  duellists,  the 
Mandarins,  the  Parisian  students  and  the  Cowboys,  the  Ushers, 
the  Quakeresses  and  Court  Jesters,  the  Dominoes,  the  coloured 
cloaks  of  the  Spanish  Toreadors.  The  joy  of  the  dance  whirled 
all  about  and  about  while  Dvorak's  magic  whispered  "Time  and 
Fate,"  of  something  gay  or  mocking — Death  ? 

They  were  lost.  And  if  she  clung  to  him  closer,  closer,  as 
though  fearful — for  her?  for  himself? — he  on  his  part  beheld 
phantoms  of  the  past  take  human  shape,  one  hot  upon  another, 
silently,  insidiously — take  shape  out  of  that  mad  swirl.  Now  they 
merged  in  one  another,  a  dim,  opaque  mass,  and  now  broke  apart 
with  separate  corporeal  existence.  And  some  were  grey  and  some 
were  gay  and  some  gibbered  or  grinned,  and  some,  ashen-white, 
were  streaked  or  smeared ;  and  from  some  great  drops  fell,  whether 
of  tears  or  blood.  And  some  wore  the  death-shroud,  and  some  in 
uniforms  drab  and  old  fled  swiftly  by,  and  some  were  mud  be- 
spattered, with  matted  hair  and  pain-shot  eyes.  And  some  held 
fear  in  their  eyes,  and  some  horror,  and  some  seemed  caught  up  in 
the  passion  of  last  moments,  sightless,  stricken;  and  some  even  as 
they  moved  wore  the  gentle  look  of  everlasting  peace. 

But  all  were  there.  .  .  . 

Eric  was  there.  And  now  he  was  as  he  had  been  at  the  end, 
whispering,  "Morphia!  Morphia! — put  an  *M'  on  my  forehead." 
And  now  he  waved  to  them — they  could  even  hear  his  laugh — and 
now  was  lost  among  shadows. 

One  by  one  they  stepped  forth  from  the  throng;  his  old  love 
clung  to  him  as  though  in  that  embrace  they  must  dance  onward 
to  eternity.  Once  glancing  down  he  thought  he  saw  the  look  with 
which  she  had  come  to  him  in  his  nightmare  of  the  crawling 
beetles  on  the  Somme ;  but  still  she  was  his — she  at  least  remained 
after  this  maniacal  thing  called  War  had  passed.  Her  body  was 
there;  flesh  and  blood,  yes,  warm,  life-giving,  living.  .  .  .  Voices 
called.  The  flashlight  threw  a  pale  glare  on  the  scene.  And  now 
it  was  Walker's  face  he  saw,  ashen,  terror-stricken  and — yes, 


476  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

surely! — it  was  Walker's  voice  he  heard:  "I'm  wounded!  I'm 
wounded!  I'm  choking!  I'm  dying!  Will  nobody  come ?" 

The  phosphorescent  glare  had  faded  out  and  all  he  saw  now  was 
the  pale  shimmer  upon  the  quiet  dead  of  Ginchy  and  Lesbceufs. 
Faces  of  these — then  others — rose  one  upon  another  in  the  spec- 
tral swirl;  now  of  Burns  upon  whom  sunlight  fell,  who  babbled 
still  somewhere  of  the  Army's  conventions  and  his  "rights,"  now 
of  Cornwallis,  whose  spectacles  awry  made  comedy  of  his  pitiful 
1  face.  Now  it  was  the  Lewis  gunners  lying  stiff  and  stark  amid  the 
brambles  and  the  sunlight  and  the  rich  autumn  foliage  of  the 
Picardy  wood,  and  now  the  lonely  soldier  in  his  shell-hole,  trans- 
figured by  sunset's  glow  on  the  field  of  Ypres.  And  now  it  was 
Arden  with  lolling  head  and  humorous  droop  at  the  corners  of  lips 
made  merry  by  firelight;  and  now  Pemberton,  just  simple  and 
dull,  gazing  out  upon  the  blue  wavelets  of  the  Channel  while  his 
soul  passed  hence.  These,  too,  joined  in  the  dance. 

It  was  as  though  all  had  risen  at  the  call  of  their  comrades  to 
celebrate  with  them  the  victory  and  the  triumph.  It  was  as  thougH 
the  souls  of  the  slain  formed  up  on  parade,  rank  after  rank,  file 
beside  file,  awaiting  their  final  dismissal.  .  .  .  Far  above,  it  seemed 
to  Adrian,  a  figure  gazed  down  as  though  pondering — the  figure  of 
an  aged,  broken  man  with  hands  folded  and  head  bent  and  eyes 
that  would  never  smile  or  look  up  again. 


The  dance  was  still  at  its  height,  wrhen  he  felt  his  partner  lean 
heavily  upon  him.  He  looked  down  and  saw  complete  pallor, 
where  the  two  scarlet  spots  had  been  on  her  cheeks. 

She  whispered  that  she  was  feeling  faint,  and  he  half-led,  half- 
compelled  her  out  into  the  stone  passages,  up,  far  up  the  stone 
stairs.  Did  demons  possess  them?  Were  phantoms  pursuing 
them?  And  what  impulse  was  it  that  urged  them  up  flight  after 
flight  of  those  stony  steps? 

She  clung  to  his  arm.  They  brushed  past  revellers,  paying  no 
heed  to  the  cries,  the  jests,  the  calls  that  greeted  and  pursued  them. 
Out  of  breath,  they  climbed  on,  till  they  came  to  the  highest  bleak 


THE  GRAND  VICTORY  BALL  477 

landing,  with  a  door  at  the  end,  opening  which  they  found  them- 
selves in  a  disused  box.  From  this  vantage-point  the  ball  looked 
like  a  pirouette  of  gay  toys.  A  couple  of  old  cane  chairs,  a  dilapi- 
dated arm-chair,  with  other  dust-covered  lumber,  lay  about.  The 
only  light  came  from  the  upward  reflection  of  the  myriad  lamps 
below. 

They  here  stopped — faced  each  other.  She  reeled  a  little.  He 
caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  for  uncounted  moments  they  stood 
swaying  together.  .  .  . 

A  thin  violet  beam  sweeping  round  caught  them  in  its  rays. 

"Oh!  my  dear,  my  dear!"  he  whispered.  "It's  all  right.  We 
are  together  at  last  .  .  .  we  belong  to  each  other  .  .  .  nothing — 
nothing — can  part  us  now." 

Honour,  faith,  his  plighted  troth  scarce  two  months  old;  duty, 
the  trust  of  a  friend,  life-loyalty — all,  all  were  cast  aside. 

§4 

Below,  the  music  of  the  bands  had  ceased.  The  great  arena  was 
being  cleared  for  the  Procession  of  Victory. 

He  .laid  her  gently  in  the  arm-chair,  and  for  the  first  time  realised 
that  the  whole  expression  of  her  face  had  altered;  that  she  looked 
inexpressibly  tired.  Her  hands  were  cold ;  tremors  passed  through 
her.  Alarm  seized  him.  He  began  to  chafe  her  hands,  to  caress 
her  flushed  temples,  her  hair. 

"Rosie,  speak — say  something!  You're  tired!  You're  ill!  Only 
for  God's  sake  speak,  move!" 

Beside  himself,  he  rushed  to  the  door  of  the  box,  thinking  to 
fetch  water ;  then  heard  her  voice,  and  was  back  at  her  side. 

She  spoke  with  an  effort,  as  though  by  strong  exercise  of  will 
alone,  saving  herself  from  swooning. 

"Don't  leave  me,  Adrian !  I  shall  be  all  right  presently.  It's — 
that — wonderful  music — and — our  great  happiness.  .  .  ." 

"Let  me  take  you  home  .  .  .  you  cannot,  you  must  not,  Stay 
here." 

"No  ...  let  us  stay  ...  and  I  will  rest." 


478  IT  AY  OF  REVELATION 

His  anxiety  easily  relieved,  he  took  her  hand,  sitting  on  the  arm 
of  the  chair. 

Silence  fell  between  them.  Then — "We've  found — ourselves 
to-night,  haven't  we,  Adrian?"  She  leant  forward,  a  note  of 
intense,  of  almost  fierce  eagerness  in  her  voice.  "I  mean  .  .  .  you 
forgive  me  ...  ?" 

"Forgive?    What — who  am  I  to  forgive?" 

"All — everything.  Oh!  Heaven  help  me!  You  know,  you 
know  what  I've  been — you  know  what  I  was  .  .  ." 

A  discord  of  pain — of  pain  or  wild  regret — broke  out  of  her, 
threatened  to  sweep  her  out  of  herself. 

"You  know  what  we  were  to  each  other!  These  years 

Oh!  Adrian!  What  wrong — what  horror!" 

She  rose  to  her  feet  uncertainly  and  stood  before  him  in  her 
sackcloth,  with  hands  clasped  and  eyes  large  and  suffering.  The 
attitude  moved  him  strangely,  reminding  him  of  that  far-off 
evening  when  she  had  sung  her  French  song  at  Arden — when  she 
had  stood  at  the  piano  in  the  first  flush  and  freedom  of  her 
awakened  youth.  All  the  fine  lines  of  her  figure,  all  her  old 
ethereal  grace  were  there  still.  But  her  face — that  was  changed 
as  the  face  of  the  world  itself. 

She  bowed  her  head.  "I  have  been  wicked,  Adrian — I  have 
been  cruel  to  you — I  have  spurned  your  great  love  for  me.  I  have 
done  worse — worse  than  you  can  know.  I  have  paid" — anguish 
came  into  her  voice — "I  have  paid — I  pay — oh!  terribly,  terribly! 

"But  I  did  not  come  here  to  lament."  Her  voice  rose  and  the 
words  poured  out  as  though  she  was  fearful  something  might  inter- 
vene to  stem  the  torrent  of  them.  "I  came — to  confess  to  you,  to 
implore  your  forgiveness,  to — to  say  that  I  ...  belong  to  you  still 
if — if  you  will  have  me." 

She  sank  down  on  the  bare  floor.  Her  hair,  loosening,  felt  like 
silk  to  his  touch.  He  tried  to  raise  her,  but  she  cried : 

"No!  No!  Leave  me— till  I've  finished!"  She  clung  to  His 
knees.  "I  came  to-night  to  find  you,  to  tell  you  that — I  am  not  the 
Rosemary  you  knew — at  Arden.  That  I  am  changed,  that  I  am 
utterly  different,  that  I  never  can  be  again  the  Rosemary  you 


THE  GRAND  VICTORY  BALL  479 

knew,  that — oh !  God,  how  am  I  to  say  it  ? — that  I  know  all  about 
the  world — that  I  am  wrong — utterly  wrong " 

He  bent  down.  He  caressed  her  hair,  framing  her  face  in  his 
two  hands,  and  raising  it  up  to  him. 

She,  however,  thrust  back  his  hands,  crying  out:  "No,  you  must 
not  touch  me — you  must  not  be  kind  to  me.  I  am  not  clean!  I 
am  not  fit  for  you  to  touch — till  you've  heard  everything  I  have  to 
say — and  have  forgiven  me!" 

"Rosie,  my  darling,  I  do — I  do  forgive  you." 

"Oh,  Adrian!"  .  .  . 

She  broke  down,  sobbing.  The  reaction  from  that  first  passion- 
ate remorse  to  their  resurrected  love  was  for  her  terrible.  Had  he 
turned  from  her,  had  he  rebuked  her,  had  he  reproached  her  by  so 
much  as  an  inflexion  of  the  voice,  it  might  have  been  easier. 

He  would  have  let  her  sob  her  heart  out.  But  the  compassionate, 
tender  yet  firm  tones  of  his  voice  dominated  that  uncontrollable 
outburst — mastered  it. 

"My  Rosemary,"  he  said,  haunted  perhaps  by  some  dim  recol- 
lection of  her  words  or  of  the  place  where  she  had  first  spoken 
them.  "My  Rosemary,  of  course  you  know  about  the  world.  .  .  . 
You  were  very  young — in  those  old  days.  You  were  a  child.  You 
did  not  know  your  own  mind.  You  did  not  know  what  you 
wanted — or  what  other  people  wanted.  You  did  not  know  men — 
or  women.  You  did  not  know  what  life  demanded — or  what  it 
held  in  store.  You  were  a  child.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  are  still  a 
child." 

"But  you  must  realise — I  must  somehow  make  you  realise — " 
she  urged  passionately,  "that  I  am  different — different  from  the 
Rosemary  you  knew.  I  went  with  all  those  people.  I  became  like 
the  rest  of  them — worse  than  foolish,  yes,  wicked  and  bad,  and 
then  .  .  .  oh,  God!  how  I  began  to  loathe  myself,  to  loathe  them, 
to  loathe  it  all!  I  wanted  to  escape.  I  couldn't.  It  had  got  me, 
it  had  chained  me  and  trapped  me  as  people  say  those  things  do  (but 
I  never  believed  it)  and — I  couldn't  escape.  ...  It  was  just  about 
then,  I  think,  that  I  met  Eric.  I  asked  him  to  help  me — I  gave  him 


480  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

a  message  for  you.  But  you  took  no  notice — or  he  didn't  give  the 
message." 

"He  didn't  give  the  message." 

"You— he  forgot?" 

"He  was  killed  within  thirty-six  hours  of  his  return." 

A  light  of  understanding  broke  in  her  face.  "I  never  thought  of 
that." 

"And  the  message — what  was  it?" 

"It  was  to  say — that  I  had  learnt  my  lesson." 

"So  you  came  to-night?" 

"I  came  to-night  to  give  you  that  message  myself.  I  long  ago 
lost  hope  of  hearing  from  you.  And  in  a  weak  moment,  I — I 
made  a — sort  of — promise  to — somebody  else.  Directly  I  knew 
you  were  back  I  realised  that  promise  was — impossible." 

He  could  have  laughed  at  the  naivete  with  which  she  spoke  the 
words  had  the  moment  been  other  than  it  was. 

"You  had  to  learn,  I  knew  you  would  have  to  learn.  Your  time 
came,  and  the  storm  swept  you  down,  like — do  you  remember? — 
that  beautiful  fallen  pine  we  rested  on •" 

She  started  up,  a  wild  look  in  her  eyes. 

"But  it  was  dead,  Adrian,"  she  cried,  "it  was  rotting — rotten!" 

He  hastened  to  change  the  simile,  seeing  that  he  had  touched 
her  old  remorse. 

"There  were  other  pines  rising  where  that  one  had  stood.  They 
were  fresh  still  and  young  and  beautiful — as  you  are." 

"No,"  she  protested  weakly,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.  "No. 
I  am  not  like  that  any  more.  .  .  .  You  do  not  understand." 

A  mastering  pity  for  her  surged  up  in  his  heart — and  all  his 
resurrected  love.  How  well  he  knew !  How  well  he  understood ! 
Had  he  not  foreseen — years  before — this  schooling,  this  buying  of 
experience,  this  coming  of  knowledge,  to  a  nature  too  impatient,  too 
headstrong  to  accept  it  as  a  gift?  .  .  .  And  now  she  lay  at  his  feet. 

How  should  he  "forgive"  her?  How  prove  to  her  that  as 
between  themselves  "forgiveness"  did  not  exist — that  the  wrong 
done  to  himself  was  no  wrong  but  a  step  on  the  road  of  her 


THE  GRAND  VICTORY  BALL  481 

experience — that  nothing,  nothing  stood  between  them  and"—ful- 
filment. 

Nothing?    Did  no  voice  whisper  to  him  then?  .  .  . 

If  it  did,  he  stifled  it.  He  raised  her,  held  her  to  him,  rested 
her  head  on  his  shoulder,  caressed  her  forehead,  her  hands. 

That  moment,  too,  passed.  When  he  again  laid  her  in  the  arm- 
chair, she  rested,  quiet  and,  as  it  seemed,  happy,  with  lips  a  little 
apart,  her  pale  hair  straying  loose  about  the  back  of  the  chair. 

For  some  time  neither  spoke  or  moved.  He  sat  beside  her,  her 
hand  in  his.  Her  last  words — "I  am  not  like  that  any  more — you 
do  not  understand" — still  echoed  in  his  ears,  and,  despite  his 
denials,  his  firm  reasoning,  his  excuses  in  her  behalf,  like  a  boring 
insect,  began  to  gnaw  a  little  wedge  into  his  mind.  Her  eyes, 
veiled  by  their  lashes,  were  no  longer  potent  to  awaken  his  pity,  nor 
did  he  fail  to  remark  a  blueness  of  the  lips,  a  leaden  pallor. 

And  even  as  he  watched,  something  came  between  them. 

Her  lips  changed.  Her  lips  became  flaccid,  thin,  vindictive.  Her 
mouth  changed,  falling  to  a  looseness  at  the  corners  that  gave  to 
it  the  attributes  of  a  mirthless  sneer.  Her  fine  nostrils  coarsened, 
her  complexion  became  waxen,  her  eyes  seemed  to  stare  through 
their  lids  malignantly,  the  spun  gold  of  her  hair  became  as  straw 
or  dross.  Some  grotesque  intuition  laid  bare  in  this  face  the  ghost 
of  all  evil  and  of  all  shame.  Some  grotesque  intimation  whispered 
a  name.  ...  It  was  Lola. 

Quick  as  the  word  took  shape  he  started  back.  A  mottled  grey- 
ness  overspread  his  cheeks.  His  features  worked  uncontrollably. 
Twice,  with  a  dry  mouth  and  a  supplicating  terror  in  his  eyes,  he 
whispered,  "Rosemary!"  But,  receiving  no  response  and  unable 
himself  to  remain  still,  he  rose  and  walked  unsteadily  to  the  front 
of  the  box. 

His  ears  echoed  with  a  horrible  laughter,  and  he  could  not  keep 
it  out. 

As  he  stood  looking  down  the  reflected  light  from  below  cast 
a  baleful  glimmer  upon  his  features,  accentuating  their  outlines, 
emphasising  their  hollows.  The  gold  buttons  of  his  uniform  re- 


482  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

fracted  malicious  pin-points  like  impish  eyes,  and  against  the  dark 
background  of  the  box  its  scarlet  facings  made  the  only  relieving 
suggestion. 

In  the  centre  of  the  hall  beneath,  a  solid  lane  of  people  had  been 
formed  reaching  to  the  dais  at  the  farther  end,  where  the  massed 
bands  showed  as  a  brilliant  cascade  of  colour.  Through  this  lane 
to  the  majestic  strains  of  "See  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes"  the 
procession  of  Victory  was  passing,  led  by  Britannia  wearing  a 
golden  helm  and  sheathed  in  red,  white,  and  blue,  to  be  succeeded 
in  turn  by  all  the  Allies.  The  music  of  organ  and  of  bands  pealed 
and  rose  and  thundered  as  the  procession  advanced. 

He  saw  and  heard  it  all  mechanically.  His  mind  registered 
nothing  of  it.  There  was  no  reality.  The  only  realities  for  him 
were  Rosemary  and — that  other.  The  only  meaning  of  it  for 
him  lay  in  her  words  lately  reiterated,  so  earnestly  spoken : 

"I  am  not  like  that  any  more — you  do  not  understand.  .  .  ." 

The  change  in  her  face,  her  eyes,  her  whole  expression — these 
assumed  a  terrible  significance  at  last. 

A  figure  stood  at  his  right  hand,  quietly  confronting  the  horror 
of  his  thoughts.  It  was  a  figure  that  of  all  others  he  could  not 
fail  to  recognise — the  face,  too  frank  and  open,  the  eyes  clear,  blue 
as  the  sky.  It  neither  accused  nor  remonstrated;  it  was  simply 
there. 

"Adrian!" 

She  called  to  him,  and  he  turned.  She  still  lay  back,  with 
marble-cold  white  features  and  marble-cold  white  throat  and  neck, 
and  straying  hair,  as  he  had  left  her.  On  her  lips — those  lips  he 
had  known  so  well! — was  an  unnatural  blueness.  Yet  her  expres- 
sion seemed  to  him  to  have  attained  again  that  of  the  earlier  time 
— to  be  so  eloquent  of  innocence,  of  purity,  of  unsullied  youth,  that 
he  almost  doubted  the  justice  of  his  thoughts. 

"I  am  happy,  Adrian/'  she  whispered,  "oh!  happier  far  than  I 
could  deserve  or  expect  to  be  because — we  are  together  and  because 
we  belong  to  one  another — for  ever." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  smiling — stretched  out  her  hand.     In 


THE  GRAND  VICTORY  BALL  483 

the  dim  light  she  could  not  see  his  face — or  what  was  written  in  it. 

"My  darling  Adrian,"  she  murmured,  "my  worthy,  worthy  man. 
It  has  been  a  long,  long — terrible — time.  But  it's  summer  for  us 
again,  isn't  it,  and  the  river's  flowing,  and — I  am  your  Rosemary 
still,  aren't  I — though  a  wicked  and  foolish  one." 

He  neither  took  her  hand  nor  moved,  but  continued  to  look  down 
at  her  with  an  expression  half-stern,  half-pitying. 

"Rosemary,"  he  said  presently  in  a  hard,  level  voice,  "I've  been 
thinking.  Perhaps  I  did  not  understand  you  at  first.  But  we  must 
understand  each  other  now,  once  and  for  all.  It  may  be  painful — 
for  us  both.  But — we  must  have  no — illusions — either  of  us." 

At  the  changed  tone  of  his  first  words  her  hands  had  gripped  the 
arms  of  the  chair. 

"Adrian!"  she  now  cried,  the  note  of  agony  once  more  in  her 
voice.  "Adrian!  you  don't  know — you  don't  realise " 

"I  do  realise.  What  you  said  just  now  has  made  me  think.  .  .  . 
I  don't  want  to  go  into  the  details  of  your  life  while  I've  been 
away — or  your  relationship  with — anybody;  that's  your  affair,  not 
mine.  But " 

"It's  the  truth"  she  burst  out;  "it's  the  truth.  I  told  you 
because  it's  the  truth,  because  I  wanted  to  confess — everything, 
everything.  I've  wronged  you,  I've  been  wicked — you  don't  know 
all  even  now!" 

"Stop!"  he  said  roughly.    "I  don't  want  to  know.  .  .  ." 

She  lay,  trembling  and  quivering  in  silence;  he  stood,  looking 
down  at  her,  wrestling  with  his  anger  and  his  misery. 

"Then  you  don't,  you  cannot — forgive  me- — ?"  she  articulated 
in  a  strained  whisper. 

He  pressed  his  hands  to  his  eyes  as  though  to  blot  out  the 
knowledge  he  would  have  given  worlds  to  escape. 

"You  must  go "  he  began,  but  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

In  uttering  the  words  he  remembered: — the  smiling  couple,  the 
object  of  congratulations,  the  topic  of  conversation  at  the  Astoria 
a  few  hours  before. 

When  he  spoke  again  it  was  in  an  odd  throttled  voice. 

"It  is  not  a  question  of — forgiveness,  Rosemary.     I — here — in 


484  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

this  hour — have  done  a  wrong  as  great  .  .  .  have  wronged  your 
best  and  truest  friend." 

They  stared  at  one  another. 

"Adrian,  I — I  don't  understand." 

'Tm  engaged  to  marry  Faith." 

She  cowered  back. 

"What — what  do  you  mean?" 

"It's  the  truth,"  he  said,  echoing  her  own  words. 

He  left  her  side.  He  went  over  to  the  broken  cane  chair  and 
sat  turned  from  her,  staring  at  the  floor,  striving  to  collect  his 
thoughts,  to  decide  what  ought  to  be  done.  She  began  to  sob 
wearily,  helplessly,  like  a  child  that  is  lost.  He  took  no  notice, 
being  only  aware  that  in  the  space  of  a  few  minutes  the  complexion 
of  all  things,  animate  and  inanimate,  had  impalpably  changed. 
The  little  box  looked  like  a  prison  cell;  its  faded  hangings  like 
those  of  a  coffin.  How  tawdry,  how  empty,  how  sordid  this  Vic- 
tory Ball  now  seemed!  .  .  .  Above  all,  how  should  he  put  an  end 
to  the  scene? 

A  long  time  passed.  Cries  of  merriment  and  laughter  floated  up 
from  the  dancing-floor. 

Her  sobbing  ceased.  Half-an-hour — perhaps  more — passed  be- 
fore he  went  over  to  where  she  lay. 

"If  you  are  unwell,  Rosemary,"  he  said  in  a  voice  as  gentle  as 
he  could  make  it,  "you  had  better  let  me  take  you  home.  I  can 
see  you  are.  Stay  here,  and  I'll  borrow  one  of  the  cars  and ! 

"No!  Don't  leave  me!  I  think — I  shall  be  all  right  soon. 
Stay  here,  and  let  me  finish.  .  .  .  Adrian" — she  spoke  in  a  whisper 
so  low  as  to  be  scarcely  audible — "Adrian,  I've  been  thinking  of^- 
that  afternoon  on  the  Chilterns — long,  long  ago — and  that  I  had 
a  premonition  then  .  .  .  and — now  it's  coming  true." 

"A  premonition? — of  what?" 

"It's  nothing  sudden  .  .  .  it's  been  coming  on  for  a  long,  long 
time.  And  after  all— it's  for  the  best." 

Recalling  dimly  their  conversation  in  the  light  of  her  present 
appearance,  his  vague  earlier  fears  returned. 


THE  GRAND  VICTORY  BALL  485 

"Will  you  do  one  thing  for  me?  Take  this  and  keep  it  .  .  . 
get  rid  of  it,  destroy  it  ...  but  as  you  loved  me  once,  never,  never 
speak  of  it  to  anybody,  or  let  anybody  see  it." 

Her  left  hand,  which  had  all  the  while  remained  clenched,  grasp- 
ing, as  he  thought,  a  handkerchief,  exposed  to  view  a  beautifully- 
enamelled  Louis  Quatorze  snuff-box.  He  recognised  it  imme- 
diately as  the  one  he  had  seen  years  before  on  Gina  Maryon's 
dressing-table  at  Arden. 

"What  is  it?    What's  in  it?" 

"Keep  it.  Hide  it.  Destroy  it.  Don't  show  it  to  anybody. 
Don't  let  it  out  of  your  sight  for  my  sake.  Promise  me  that !" 

In  her  emotion  she  had  risen  almost  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"But  what  is  it?  What  is  this  stuff?  What  is  this  sickly 
scent?" 

"Don't  ask  me— oh!  don't  ask  me,  please!  Be  merciful,  my 
darling.  I  thought  there  was  no  harm  at  first,  then — it  got  hold 
of  me — it's  the  only  thing  that's  kept  me  going  these  last  days  and 
nights  and  hours." 

She  looked  up  at  him  beseechingly  but  seeing  the  haunted  ex- 
pression that  had  come  into  his  eyes,  recoiled. 

"To-night — I  went  too  far.  I  had  to.  I  wanted  so  to  be  gay 
to-night,  to  forget,  above  all  to  bring  back  that  afternoon  at 
Arden — in  the  punt.  Now  I  know  that  cannot  be  ...  so  will 
you  promise  me — just  this  one  thing?" 

"I  do,  I  do  promise.  .  .  .  But,  oh,  my  God!  Rosemary,  what 
have  you  done?" 

A  nameless,  speechless  dread  began  to  take  shape  in  his  mind. 

"Thank  you,  Adrian.  Now  we  understand  each  other — and  I 
can  sleep  in  peace!  And  nobody  need  ever  know  but  you — at  the 
worst  they  can  put  it  down  to  the  Meynell  'queerness' — or  heart 
failure.  The  world  need  never  know.  .  .  ." 

Something  in  the  words  or  the  way  she  spoke  them  caused  him 
to  peer  closer  at  her  in  the  half-light.  He  saw  that  in  her  face 
which  he  had  seen  on  too  many  a  human  face  before  to  make  any 
mistake. 


486  WAV  OF  REVELATION 

He  leapt  up,  rushed  to  the  door,  and  ran  down  many  flights  of 
stone  steps. 

Columbine  and  Harlequin,  it  chanced,  were  sitting  upon  these 
steps,  so  far  absorbed  in  their  eternal  flirtation  that  when  he  rushed 
upon  them  crying,  "Fetch  a  doctor,  fetch  a  doctor!  There's  some- 
body ill  up  there  in  a  box!"  Columbine  broke  into  her  treble  laugh, 
thinking  it  to  be  a  capital  joke.  But,  seeing  his  full  face,  papery- 
white  and  twisted  with  anguish,  they  were  scared  and  dumb,  and 
fled  down  the  stairs,  barely  conscious  of  their  quest. 

Adrian,  for  his  part,  bounded  up  again,  realising  that  several 
minutes  might  have  to  pass  before  a  doctor  could  be  brought. 

He  found  her  as  he  had  left  her,  quietly  and  regularly  breathing 
but  with  the  bluish  tinge  more  pronounced  upon  her  lips,  and  her 
delicate  features  set  as  in  marble. 

He  knelt  beside  her,  took  her  cold  hands  in  his.  She  raised  her 
eyelids  that  had  been  half  closed;  the  old  childlike  smile  played 
about  her  lips. 

"Will  you  forgive  me — now?"  she  whispered.  "For  it  cannot 
matter — can  it? — any  more." 

He  bent  towards  her,  drew  her  limp  arms  around  him. 

"To  rest  in  your  arms,  Adrian,  to  have  you  near  me,  to  have 
your  forgiveness,  to  know  that  you  care  for  me  still — that  is  the 
only  heaven  I  want." 

"My  darling,  my  beloved !" 

"Adrian,  I'm  glad — about  you  and  Faith.  .  .  .  She  will  make 
you  happier  than  I  ever  could  have — though  I,  too,  loved  you  in 
my  heart.  Only  I  did  not  know  .  .  .  that  the  world  is  such  a 
terrible  place." 

She  paused  and  sighed  deeply,  as  though  struggling  against  an 
unconquerable  weariness. 

"But  what  does  it  all  mean,  and  why  is  the  world  so  terrible, 
so — so  wrong  ?  I  used  to  think  it  wonderful  once,  perfect,  glorious, 
and  that  Evil  belonged  to  some  other  world,  not  ours,  and  that 
while  one  was  young  there  could  be  no  sadness  in  one's  life,  only 
laughter,  and — the  joy  of  things.  .  .  ." 

"Somehow — we  got  across  one  another " 


THE  GRAND  VICTORY  BALL  487 

"Oh!  if  only — if  only — you  had  never  left  me,"  she  pleaded. 

"That  was  the  war." 

"The  war!  Yes— everything  was  the  war.  .  .  .  And  now — I 
want  so  terribly  to  live  everything  over  again — differently — if  only 
in  my  mind.  .  .  ." 

Music  came  up  from  below — sad,  warning,  yet  charged  as  it 
seemed  with  a  curious  pity. 

"Humoreske!"  she  cried,  starting  up  with  a  great  effort  and 
listening  raptly.  "How  that  thing  makes  one  suffer!  How  it 
makes  one  love,  despair,  hope,  joy — yearn  for  something  beyond 
oneself,  for  something  one  cannot  find  or  grasp  or  realise.  .  .  ." 

"It's  the  mockery  of  our  lives,"  he  made  answer. 

But  she  grew  calmer,  for  they  knew  they  understood  one  another,, 
and  his  arm  was  about  her. 

For  several  minutes  neither  spoke.  They  were  so  perfectly  at 
one  that  the  very  separateness  of  human  existence  seemed  hidden 
from  them,  and  in  those  fleeting  moments  they  became  an  entity 
inspired  by  conviction  of  eternity. 

At  length  she  whispered: 

"Adrian  .  .  .  I've  never  been  taught  to  pray." 

He  drew  her  to  him  convulsively. 

"Will  God  understand  me — will  He  forgive  me?  .  .  .  Or — 
shall  I  be  punished  ?" 

"Don't  speak  like  that!"  he  implored.  "You  are  young;  you 
will  live  your  life  to  the  full.  We  shall  both  some  day  look  back 
upon  this  night  as — upon  something  that  has  not  happened." 

"No,  that  can't  be.  If  I  lived  now  I  could  not  be  happy.  So 
it's  for  the  best.  .  .  .  But  stay  with  me,  stay  with  me — for  I  am 
afraid!" 

"Afraid?    Afraid  of  what,  beloved?" 

They  were  the  words  he  had  used  on  their  last  day  together  in 
the  beech-wood;  but  he  did  not  think  of  that  now. 

"Of  the  loneliness  and  the  darkness  and — the  emptiness.  And 
of  being  separated  from  you,  and  of  never  seeing  you  or  touching 
you  or  hearing  your  voice  ever — any  more." 

He  caressed  her  hand  in  a  sort  of  controlled  agony. 


488  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"Listen !  That  valse !  I  wanted  to  live  to-night,  Adrian.  Oh ! 
but  I  wanted  to  live.  I  wanted  to  dance  with  you  once  more,  to 
love  and  laugh  and  be  gay.  I  wanted  to  forget  all  that's  been,  to 
remake  my  life.  But  happiness  goes  with  goodness,  and  youth  with, 
happiness.  ..." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  lay  still. 

"They  will  put  me  in  a  deep  grave,"  she  murmured  as  though 
to  herself.  "They  will  throw  earth  on  me.  Rats  will  come,  and 
worms  .  .  .  and  then  ...  I  shall  be  nothing.  .  .  ." 

A  shudder  passed  through  her.  After  a  lapse  of  minutes  Adrian 
Knoyle's  voice  came  hoarsely,  brokenly  as  from  a  sepulchre. 

"Our  Father  .  .  .  which  art  in  heaven  .  .  .  Hallowed  be  thy 
name.  Thy  kingdom  come.  .  .  .  Thy  will  be  done  .  .  ." 

The  valse  had  ceased,  and  to  their  ears  from  the  crowded  world 
below  came  sounds  of  singing  and  wild  cheering  above  the  crash 
of  the  military  bands.  At  the  first  bars  of  the  English  national 
hymn  she  murmured  faintly: 

"Adrian,  do  you  remember — years  ago,  and  how  ...  we  heard 
that?" 

They  listened  in  silence. 

"And,  Adrian  ...  I  would  like  to  think — to  know — that  some 
day  we  may  all  be  together  again — you  and  Faith  and  Eric  and  I 
— in  some  place  like  Arden." 

No  sound  came  from  him.    She  whispered : 

"Kiss  me  ...  as  you  used  to  ...  on  my  lips." 


They  burst  in  a  few  minutes  later  and  found  the  couple  as  in  a 
tableau:  she  lying  back  with  lips  parted,  calm  and  beautiful,  he 
motionless,  kneeling  in  an  attitude  of  prayer  or  of  despair,  his 
head  buried  in  his  hands,  his  hands  resting  on  her  breast. 


CHAPTER  IV 
The  Three  Hills 

THE  Five  Years  had  passed.  .  .  . 

And  in  the  evening  of  a  June  day  a  man  and  a  woman  might 
have  been  seen  climbing  the  steep  face  of  a  hill  remotely  situated  in 
a  western  district  of  England.  Their  progress  was  slow,  and  it 
appeared  as  though  one  were  helping  the  other,  the  helper  being 
the  woman.  It  was  the  early  season  of  the  down  flowers,  and  the 
two  would  frequently  bent  low  to  gather  these — the  beautiful  blue, 
bell-like  campanula,  the  crane's  bill  and  squinancywort,  the  delicate 
purple  scabious  and  creamy  butterfly-orchis.  Sometimes,  they 
would  stop  to  examine  the  countless  small  fossil-shells  and  flints 
that  bore  so  strange  a  resemblance  to  living  objects,  the  eye  of  a 
bird,  the  head  of  a  squirrel  or  mouse — bore  testimony,  too,  to  the 
prehistoric  reign  of  the  sea. 

Their  advance  brought  them  to  a  flat  shelf,  by  origin  an  ancient 
wolf-platform  scooped  out  of  the  open  hillside;  and  here  they 
rested  awhile.  They  were  on  the  left  or  westernmost  escarpment 
of  a  vast  amphitheatre  formed  by  three  high  and  rounded  hills. 
One  of  these  might  be  distinguished  for  miles  around  by  a  tuft  of 
stunted  fir-trees  growing  upon  its  summit ;  upon  the  face  of  another 
was  a  white  horse  cut  out  of  the  chalk.  The  view,  looking  south 
and  west,  embraced  a  wide  and  fertile  vale,  the  prevailing  tint 
being  a  pale  green.  Against  the  low  opposite  ramparts  of  the 
Plain,  a  line  of  poplars  rose  like  a  rank  of  soldiers.  The  smooth 
outline  was  broken  at  intervals  by  beech-clumps  and  the  sides 
scored  here  and  there  by  steep,  white  tracks.  There  was  corn  on 
the  Plain,  but  there  was  none  in  the  Vale ;  here  elm-studded  hedge- 
rows separated  the  little  grass  fields.  Red  and  white  of  cattle  in 
places  dappled  the  green.  There  were  villages  and  at  least  one 

489 


490  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

market-town,  but  these  only  disclosed  themselves  where  a  glimpse 
of  dull  red  brick  broke  the  prevailing  tone,  or  greenish-yellow 
thatch  blended  with  elms,  or  the  grey  summit  of  some  Norman 
church  tower  appeared  at  the  height  of  rooks*  nests.  There  were 
streams,  but  these,  born  in  the  remoter  valleys  of  the  downs,  on 
reaching  the  Vale  speedily  dwindled  to  the  proportions  of  a  pebbly 
trickle,  finally  losing  themselves  amid  alder-growth,  watercress,  and 
weeds.  There  were  occasional  large  woods,  and  as  a  traveller 
approached  the  downs,  wild  little  lanes,  clotted  and  tangled  and 
made  almost  impassable  by  clematis,  honeysuckle,  and  dog-rose. 

Hardly  defiled  by  the  railway,  seldom  touched  by  foot  of  tourist 
— for  it  offered  no  renowned  "beauty-spot"  or  far-famed  architec- 
tural attraction — the  Vale  thus  outspread  seemed  to  be  the  home 
of  delicate  light,  cloud-shadow,  and  wayward  contrast  in  contour 
and  colouring;  to  cherish  within  itself  an  intense,  a  rapt  seclusion. 

The  hills,  too,  had  their  charm— but  it  was  a  different  one. 
In  place  of  the  rabbit,  the  hare ;  in  place  of  the  linnet,  the  wheat- 
ear;  in  place  of  the  owl,  the  hawk.  If  the  Vale  was  a  sanctuary 
in  which  to  linger  through  the  haze  of  noon,  the  down  was  an 
altar  from  which  to  contemplate  the  splendour  of  sunset  or  sunrise 
and  to  meditate  upon  the  beauties  of  God's  world. 

Here,  indeed,  Life  seemed  to  take  on  a  grander  and  more 
generous  shape — Nature  came  into  her  own — Man,  with  all  his 
struggles  and  aspirations,  sank  to  a  proper  level  of  insignificance. 
The  air  was  more  potent  than  spring  water.  It  was  possible  to 
walk  all  day  long  across  the  upland  meeting  no  human  being 
but  a  shepherd.  The  air  uplifted  the  heart — cleansed  and 
revivified.  .  .  . 

The  man  and  woman  had  climbed  half-way  up  the  hillside  when 
they  paused. 

Immediately  beneath,  as  a  pebble  might  be  dropped  into  the 
flat,  semicircular  arena  formed  by  the  Three  Hills,  stood  a  fair- 
sized  manor-house  of  grey  Portland  stone,  with  a  weathered  and 
lichened  roof  of  chocolate-red.  Nearby,  a  hamlet  of  thatched 
cottages  showed  among  elms.  Along  the  whole  of  one  side  of 
the  house  ran  a  balustraded  terrace  flanked  by  walled  fruit  and 


THE  THREE  HILLS  491 

vegetable  gardens,  these  facing  towards  the  west.  On  the  terrace 
was  seated  a  white-haired  woman  in  an  invalid-chair. 

"Your  mother  looks  very  happy  there,  Adrian.  I  hope  she  will 
always  be  with  us." 

Faith  turned  to  her  husband.  The  setting  sun  lit  up  both 
their  faces,  in  which  could  be  traced  a  curious  resemblance  one 
to  the  other,  not  in  the  features  so  much  as  in  an  expression  of 
the  eyes.  Lines,  a  scar  on  the  forehead,  and  an  evident  recent 
illness  caused  the  man's  face  to  look  old  before  its  time.  The 
woman's  had  that  mellow  kind  of  beauty  which  comes  in  the 
nature  of  a  legacy,  after  the  bloom  of  girlhood. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  and  she — and  Eric — have  kept  me  alive 
in  these  years.  I  mean  the  soul  of  me — for  war,  you  know,  kills 
the  soul  as  surely  as  it  kills  the  body.  And  I  thought  that  had 
died  in  me  once.  .  .  ."  He  fell  silent,  drinking  in  the  beauty 
around  them.  "A  wife,  one's  mother,  a  friend — what  more  could 
any  man  ask  of  a  world  that  can  be  so  cruel?" 

"But  in  the  end  one's  life  is  oneself,"  she  replied. 

They  turned  again  towards  the  steep. 

Further  climbing  brought  them  to  the  summit  of  a  smooth, 
artificial  mound  or  circular  earthwork,  where  they  found  them- 
selves on  the  highest  point  of  the  Three  Hills — the  highest  point, 
indeed,  for  miles  around.  The  only  sounds  to  reach  them  were 
the  evening  hymn  of  the  skylarks  and  the  bells  of  some  sheep 
which  were  cropping  among  furze-bushes  a  short  distance  away. 
Evidences  of  a  vast  Early  British  settlement  surrounded  them, 
there  being  everywhere  visible  in  the  downland  turf  large  cup- 
shaped  depressions,  platforms  and  pits,  curious  hillocks  and  low, 
circular  mounds.  The  very  earthwork  on  which  they  sat  had 
formed  the  main  bulwark  of  the  Citadel,  and  upon  its  lip  could 
still  be  discerned  a  faint  shadowy  line  in  the  turf  worn  by  the 
pacing  footsteps  of  sentinels  in  the  long-ago. 

A  delicate  carmine  light  had  begun  to  warm  the  downland's 
swelling  breast.  .  .  . 

The  two  drew  very  near  together. 

He,  pointing,  said:  "Look!  The  sun  is  going  'down  over  Men- 
dip." 


492  WAY  OF  REVELATION 

"Yes — and  to-morrow  it  rises  upon  a  new  world." 

For  some  minutes  neither  spoke.    Then, 

"This  place  is  wonderfully  solemn  and  beautiful,"  she  said. 
"I  shall  often  come  up  here  and  look  down  at  our  home  and 
listen  to  the  wind  sighing  through  those  old  fir-trees.  Whenever 
I  hear  that  I  think  of  the  voices  of  people  one  has  known  and 
who  have  gone  from  us." 

His  response  was  to  take  her  hand. 

"I  feel  they  are  very  near  to  us  now,  Adrian.  .  .  ." 

"Eric  is  always  near.    But  she ?" 

"She  suffered  and  is  happy.  I  feel — I  know — that  she,  too,  is 
at  peace." 

"I  think  it  must  be  so,"  he  said  quietly.  "She  paid — in  full. 
.  .  .  But  the  terrible  thing  about  Death," — a  grave  concern  came 
into  his  voice — "is  that  one  cannot  know.  One  can  only  wonder 
and — and — try  to  believe." 

He  paused,  then  continued: 

"And  I  need  forgiveness,  too,  God  knows,  for  I  went  back  to 
her  at  the  last — and  forgot  you." 

His  vaguely  troubled  eyes  looked  down  into  the  steadfast  candour 
of  her  face. 

"You  are  hers  still  as  I  am  Eric's,"  she  said;  "the  war  itself 
could  not  alter  that  .  .  .  and  Time  and  Death  cannot." 

Both  remained  deep  in  thought,  while  the  scent  of  the  wild 
thyme  crept  all  about  them,  and  evening  folded  together  hill 
and  sky. 

Once  he  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said,  "It's  nearly  time.  .  .  ." 

But  it  was  not  until  night  had  fallen  quite,  that  a  dull  red 
glow  began  to  smoulder  among  the  surrounding  hills.  On  Mendip 
and  on  Quantock  to  the  west,  on  Hackpen  and  Inkpen  to  the 
north  and  east,  southward  above  the  sheep-walks  of  the  Great 
Plain,  the  beacons  gleamed  like  living  coals. 

The  Three  Hills,  too,  caught  the  spreading  light,  so  that  the 
figures  of  the  man  and  woman  were  flung  into  relief. 

THE  END. 


Popular  Appleton  Fiction 


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Author  of  "The  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense,"  ttc. 

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THE  AGE  OF  INNOCENCE 

By  Edith  Wharton 
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MISS  LULU  BETT 

By  Zona  Gale 

Shows  American  life  as  it  is.  In  a  household  typical  of  every  town  in 
the  country,  Miss  Lulu  Bett,  "the  unmarried  sister"  was  the  drudge. 
Read  "Miss  Lulu  Bett"  as  a  novel  or  in  its  play  form  (winner  of  the 
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CARTER  And  Other  People 

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Short  stories  about  subjects  ranging  from  the  tragedy  of  race  to  the 
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slice  of  life. 

LOW  CEILINGS 

By  W.  Douglas  Newton 
Author  of  "Green  Ladies"  etc. 

A  young  fellow  tries  to  make  the  most  of  himself,  but  is  tied  down  by 
the  suburban  narrowness  of  ^  his  environment.  An  interesting  plot 
shows  two  women  as  representing  the  best  and  worst  that  is  in  him. 

These  Are  Appleton  Books 


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YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 

By  George  Gibbs 
Author  of  "The  Vagrant  Duke.".  "The  Splendid  Outcast.",  etc. 

A  mystery  follows  Patsy,  the  heroine,  from  the  days  of  her  Bowery 
tenement  childhood  to  the  later  years  when  the  comforts  and  happiness 
of  a  luxurious  home  are  hers.  Interesting  characters  participate  in  her 
colorful  adventures. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE   FALCON 

By  Harold  Lamb 
Author  of  "Matching  Sands" 

Kidnapped  while  visiting  India,  an  American  girl  is  the  prize  for  which 
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THE  UNSEEN  EAR 

By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln 
Author  of  '.'The  Red  Sea/.*!  "The  Three  Strings."  etc. 

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Washington's  smart  set. 

THE  SAMOVAR  GIRL 

By  Frederick  Moore 
Author  of  "Sailor  Girl."  etc. 

Seeking  revenge,  but  finding  romance,  a  young  man  returns  to  his 
native  Siberia  after  years  in  America. 

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By  Mary  Hastings  Bradley 
Author  of  "The  Fortieth  Door,"  etc. 

"Most  piquant  little  love  story  of  any  recent  writing." — New  York 
Evening  World.  A  lovely  Italian  goes  adventuring  in  America,  seeking 
a  wealthy  husband. 

NEW  YORK  D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY  LONDON 

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